


Transference

by DedreaJay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Development, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gen, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mindfuck, POV First Person, Power Dynamics, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Slow Burn, dom!Chilton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DedreaJay/pseuds/DedreaJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lapse in professional decorum has led you to the office of your former teacher and mentor, Dr Frederick Chilton.  But the man that stands before you is drastically different than the one you once knew, and if you want to learn why you will have to endure a series of challenging and unorthodox "lessons".</p>
<p>It's a good thing you're so stubborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Overthink It

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic of any kind I've ever posted. Aaaa! Hello! This is basically an angst factory/front for slow-burn shameless wish-fulfilment smut, but there is at least a thin story that might even end up being interesting if I figure myself out :P I have the main drag of the story plotted out, but at this point I can't really say how long? I can't tell if this is overly involved for a reader-POV, but I guess if you like the idea of a text adventure game where you are a character who gets tied up and spanked by Chilton then WELCOME, FRIEND. 
> 
> The tags will definitely grow, and I do want to bring in more canon characters.
> 
> I am also trying to divide chapters in a way that lets readers check for triggers or kinks they'd rather avoid, without missing too much of the plot. The end notes in each chapter will have any relevant content notes or warnings.

You’re still in front of the bedroom mirror, still sitting cross-legged in your rumpled gown with a glorious set of smudgy 1am panda eyes.  You’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes, nursing a bottle of reasonably-priced bourbon and quietly willing yourself to clean up and just go the hell to bed already.  Problem is, something is stopping you, and that “something” is guilt, and you know you aren’t going to feel better until you do something about it.  So you sigh in defeat, take one more pull of bourbon and reach into a drawer.  That stupid goddamn party…

Before the night of the Gala, you hadn't seen him for 3 years—though even that time was just a stilted 2-minute chat at some _other_ ghastly reception.  Tonight should have been much the same and, were it not for the gruesome events of this past year, it would have been.   It’s not that you’d been _avoiding_ Dr Chilton all these years, you just made no effort to keep in touch.  This is how you’d decided to handle things once the strange and unsavory rumors about his “practices” began filtering down through the halls of John Hopkins.  At first it seemed inconceivable that the same kind man who'd taught you when you were a shy college freshman could do anything as untoward as those whispers accused, but you decided it was still wise to let the past stay where it was.  But as time went on the rumors kept coming, and with them a growing pool of anecdotes, complaints and jokes that painted the portrait of a snide poncey asshole who—in spite of his outwardly illustrious career—impressed very few people other than himself.  This was far more plausible…which is probably why you found it so upsetting.   You tried ignoring those feelings, and when that didn't work decided to settle things by seeing him speak at a conference.  It was a panel discussion on “modern trends in violent criminal rehabilitation”, so you weren't going to be bored, at least.  It was a good sized venue that let you blend into the audience, and after a short while you became grateful for the anonymity.

The Frederick Chilton who appeared onstage had the face of your old teacher and mentor, but he looked like the villain of some cheesy daytime melodrama.  He was meticulously groomed, dressed in a rather ostentatious 3-piece suit and methodically accessorized with the usual markers of wealth and success:  designer watch, bawdy ring, some kind of ludicrous pen prominently displayed in his breast pocket.  But it wasn't his style that devastated you.  He looked so detached, so superior, so… _smug_.  Nothing he said helped this impression, and the more he spoke the sadder it made you.  His contributions were haughty, yet trite.  There was seemingly no empathy for the patients whose cases he referenced, and he displayed more interest in rhetorical flourish than substance...but the worst part by far was his face:  His eyes were cold, his smile pinched and self-satisfied.  You decided then that you preferred to hold on to the memory of Frederick Chilton as you’d known him in the past.  When the session ended, you left discreetly with the crowd and went on with your life.

But all of this was before he was abducted and mutilated by a patient, and then arrested, and then shot in the face...somehow.  It's clear he'd been badly injured both times, but the FBI's involvement ensured that details remained murky. You knew he would be at the Gala.  It was going to be his first public appearance since his release from the hospital.  You didn’t have to attend if you really didn’t want to…your career is just taking off, and you're not important yet enough to offend any heavy hitters with your absence (which is just fine with you).  But you wanted to see him.  You were horrified at the thought of what he’d been through, and slightly ashamed that you never reached out after his abduction.  Whoever he’d become, he hadn’t deserved anything so hideous, and he certainly didn’t deserve it *twice*.   Plus, no one seemed to have heard of any family or partner, and you wondered if he had anybody that cared about him.  You realized that some part of you wanted him to know that somebody was a _little_ worried for him.  You fussed over the dress more than you normally would, and took far more time with your hair and make-up.  You just wanted to look nice for an old friend!  Same as you would any other.  “Don’t over think this,” you told yourself.

You’d arrived at the venue certain you were prepared.  Trauma recovery is your business, for heaven’s sake!  You’ve seen injuries far worse than Dr Chilton’s, and their aftermath.   You told yourself again:  speak normally, but don’t pretend nothing has changed.  Don’t stare, don’t pry, let him lead the conversation.  Keep it short, keep it light, tell him you’re glad he’s recovered so well and then wish him the best.  Do not mention the past.

You entered the foyer steeled and ready to perform…but there was no sign of Chilton.  You made the obligatory rounds, and after a few glasses of wine let down your guard and relaxed into the social atmosphere.  It had been two hours…obviously he wasn’t going to show.  That was just fine.  You looked great, you were having fun and there were actually people here you wanted to see.  You had just fallen deep into conversation with a few colleagues when suddenly one of them gasped.  You turned to look and there was Dr Chilton, standing halfway across the room just to the side of the entrance cautiously surveying the crowd.  You looked at his face and your heart stopped cold.

He was dressed much the same way as when you’d seen his talk, but this man was bereft of any swagger or bravado.  You watched as he eyed up the room, glancing nervously back and forth…he looked pale, small and desperately uncomfortable.  Even still, his face didn't seem _too_ bad…some discoloration in the eye, obvious swelling, but that was the very least that one would expect.

You felt a jab at your arm and someone hiss your name. 

“Don’t _stare!”_ your friend whispered.

That was when you realized Dr Chilton was looking directly at you, essentially watching you _stare at his face_.  Your eyes met and you froze, mortified.  This was exactly the opposite of how you were supposed to conduct yourself.  You couldn’t quite read his expression…was he embarrassed?  Angry?

Your friend called back your attention with some pretense, and you accepted gratefully.  You turned back after a few minutes and saw Chilton talking to the esteemed hostess Mrs So-and-So of the Baltimore Society of Whatever.  You couldn’t remember her name,  or even your own mother’s at this point.  His eyes darted back towards you but you turned away quickly acted as naturally as you could.

God, you'd felt like an ass...your bedside manner was so bad it had offended someone from 30 ft away.  You were acutely embarrassed, but after a while (and more wine) the feeling faded to the background and you could just about enjoy yourself again.  You decided to *not* seek out Chilton as planned, because obviously you weren’t capable conducting yourself like an adult, never mind a doctor. 

Plus now you were slightly drunk. 

You excused yourself to the buffet for a snack, but when you turned from the mini-quiches there he was again!  Dr Chilton was _right there_ beside you, pondering over an elaborate arrangement of vegetables.  You tried to say hello but a hoarse little croak is all that escaped.  He turned and froze, clearly as caught out as you were.  Your mind was racing:  _But you can’t just stand and stare at him! What is WRONG with you? SAY SOMETHING!_

“D-Dr Chilton…” you blurted out, before realizing you had no idea what to say next. But you had to say _something,_ so:

“Hi!”

He blinked in surprise.

You didn’t want to stare at his face, but you weren’t comfortable looking him in the eyes.  So you glanced back and forth between the two, which you knew was _terrible_ but at that moment you couldn’t really help it.  He stared back at you.

“… _Doctor._ ” He said cautiously.

Doctor?  That’s it?  Did he even remember your name?  Did he actually _recognize_ you, or were you just the awkward woman who stared at him from across the room?  A warm flush crept into your cheeks.  Never in your adult life had you felt so foolish as you did at that moment.

But then you noticed his cheek.  There was a large silicone patch just below his cheekbone, concealing what was probably the entry or exit wound, which explained why he looked all right from a distance.  The rest he’d tried to cover with foundation, but standing so close you could see a thin fresh scar along the suborbital bone of his eye.  There was bruising all around the injured area and surgery sites.  You wondered how many surgeries he’d had, and how many more he’d need…and a host of other questions popped into your head.  You looked back to his eye…broken blood vessels, a bit of cloudiness…vision loss, maybe?  You realized suddenly that he was still looking at you, and that you were reading the man's face like a medical text instead of actually looking at him, and that he was clearly mortified.  You were certain then that he recognized you, and he was waiting for your move.  He licked his lips nervously, looked…timorous. As if he’s convinced something awful is about to happen.  But then, why shouldn’t he, after everything that already _has?_

Maybe it was the wine, but suddenly you were overwhelmed with sympathy…any distance you had put between your empathy and his experience vanished, and you felt the lump rise in your throat before you could stop it.  He’d been kidnapped, tortured, maimed, shot…all without a meaningful word said between you in, what had it been?  7 years?  What could you possibly have to say to this man?  Meanwhile, his brow began to glistened and you realized with a start that he was _terrified_ of you.  This drunk woman was standing in front of him, and God only knew what she was going to do next, and arrgh!

It was an awful feeling, and it swirled together with your memories and the wine and…the longer you stood there, the more upset you became.  This isn’t what you’d wanted, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen, and now you’d humiliated a trauma survivor…in public!  He looked so scared, so tired, so tense, and you heart nearly broke in half.  You wanted to cry out an apology, wrap your arms around him and tell him how relieved you were that he was alive, how important he’d been to you. Tears crept into the corners of your eyes and you realized that if you did not leave immediately you were going to _cry_ …and then you would basically have to jump off of a bridge because you would never be able to show your face in public again, never mind a _hospital_.  He must have noticed, because he began blushing violently.  The kindest thing you could do at that point was to leave him alone.

So, you mustered the last bit of composure you had and cleared your throat.  You smiled pleasantly, then reached out casually and touched him on the arm.

“It’s…good to see you.”  You said formally, voice only wavering slightly.

He’d jumped at your touch, but realized that he’d been offered an escape.

“And you…” he replied stiffly.  But not quite coldly, you’d noticed.

“Take…care” you said, then darted quickly back to your colleagues, who you implored to find you enough booze to make you forget everything.

They did their best (really they did), but you can’t forget, and so here you are back at your vanity feeling like a complete and total asshole.  You pull a page of stationery out of the drawer and grab a pen.   You need to apologize, and sincerely.  You inhale deeply, and then start writing.  When you’ve finished you have tears staining your face, but you feel much better. This is the right thing to do, you tell yourself.  You stuff the letter into an envelope and seal it.

You’re still a bit drunk the next morning, but you force yourself to stamp, address and mail the letter before you can have time to think better of it.

This is the right thing to do.

Don’t overthink it.


	2. In the Waiting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the waiting room of Dr Chilton's office, your mind wanders back to some rather *unprofessional* thoughts.
> 
> Thanks, brain. 
> 
> You asshole.

You’re seated just outside of his office, alternately smoothing your skirt and drumming your fingers nervously against the wooden arm of your chair.  Your expression remains neutral…you hope.  You’re trying to appear casual and composed, and it’s not clear from the secretary’s expression if she’s just humoring you or really buys it.  She has that retail sort of smile—pleasant, but checked out.  The one you remember from your time as a department store clerk.  But that was way back in college.  Back when Dr Chilton was…

Your heart starts pounding again, each beat thumping in your eardrums.  Deep, slow breaths now…

_Why in God’s name did I send that letter?_

It’s a stupid question, really.  You _know_ why, and your reasons were perfectly innocent.  Laudable, even.  You embarrassed yourself, you embarrassed him, you needed to apologize. The problem is that you wrote it while nursing a bottle of bourbon after a night soaked in wine and you can’t remember everything you said. 

Er…most of what you said, actually.

You know you did apologize, and you know that you confessed your gratitude for how much he’d helped you all those years ago, but you’d spent an awfully long time writing and you really could not remember much beyond that. The chances of you having embarrassed yourself again were uncomfortably high.

When four weeks had passed with no reply, you were relieved.  He wasn’t going to answer, and why should he?  You were part of his past—and he of yours.  There was no good reason not to keep it that way. You certainly didn’t need any extra distraction in your life.

So February came and went, and then March, and then last week you received a call from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  To your surprise, it was an invitation to interview for a part-time consulting position on a case review for two inmates who were apparently “contesting” their diagnoses.  The interview time and date were already set, and in spite of finding that professionally discourteous you picked up the phone and immediately confirmed your attendance.

You were regretting that now, because...well honestly, what were you thinking?  This was the worst possible time to introduce more work into your life, and God knows you don’t need any weird drama on top.  But the worst part, the absolute icing on the cake was _the dreams_.  In the week since you’d received the invitation, you’d been revisiting those old memories of Dr Chilton:  Sitting enthralled in his lectures, the way you were intimidated by his strict manner and curt way of speaking.  You remembered the times you sat in his cramped little office:  him sitting casually in his nest of books and journals, you sitting straight in your chair thinking of the next questions to ask and listening earnestly for their answers.  You’d developed a crush on him, but of course you’d never actually *do* anything…you weren’t stupid. You knew it was just a stereotypical teenaged crush, and you found it far too embarrassing to give it any serious thought. 

Anyway, Dr Chilton would never do anything so improper as carry on with a _student_.  Still, when you found out he’d be leaving the University at the end of the year, you were gutted.  You found any excuse to visit during office hours, and he always smiled when your head popped into the doorway and asked if he was free.  You loved that smile.  It was warm and friendly, and only for you.   You were convinced of this because you never saw him smile that way at anyone or anything else.  Your heart fluttered every time you saw it. 

You were right about him (of course you were!).  If he had shared any of your feelings, he never let on.  His special smile was fond, not amorous or even flirty.  Still, there was always the limitless world of imagination, and for years after you parted he remained a solid fixture in your blossoming sexual fantasy life.  In your head you’d done each other 6 ways from Sunday, in every possible setting and configuration.  It tapered off gradually, as you accumulated boyfriends and flings and other “real” experience, but since the invitation arrived the image of Dr Chilton started…showing up again.  After a particularly hectic day at the Institute you like to wind down in the evenings by rubbing yourself off lazily before bed (it’s for the “stress management” benefits, you tell yourself).  During these little moments of leisure you relax and let your mind wander where it will…only that night it wandered all the way back to Dr Chilton’s university office, and that goddamned smile.  At first you stopped.  It seemed inappropriate, somehow even scandalous to get off on an old shade of a very real man you would be meeting in less than a week.  It kept happening and you kept resisting, but the fantasy just became more stubborn, more _lurid,_ until it pushed its way into your very dreams.

This was the real reason your heart was pounding now.  You could handle awkward meetings with estranged friends and colleagues…lord knows you’d had them often enough.  But last night you had a sex dream so graphic and vivid that you woke up with your hand down your pajamas and the image of Young Dr Chilton lying naked on top of you.

You remember that just now, and bite hard on the inside of your cheek to distract yourself.  For God’s sake, get ahold of yourself!

Of course, that’s the exact moment the secretary calls your name (because _of it is)_ , and you jump in your seat.  She chirps:

“Dr Chilton will see you now.”

You thank her with an innocent smile on your face, then make a good show of walking calmly through his office doors.  They shut loudly behind you, and you’re left for a moment to wonder what on earth you’re getting yourself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (shorter) bit of exposition. 
> 
> Things heat up in the next chapter, so stay tuned :P


	3. A Very Strange Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all of these years, you sit down face to face with Dr Chilton. But what starts as a job interview turns into a personal inquisition. Why is he toying with your emotions?
> 
>  
> 
> ***Content warnings for this chapter are in the notes***

It’s as if you’ve suddenly stepped into a museum. The room looks more like a Victorian drawing room than an office: The antique furniture and books, old maps, fireplace...are those _green velvet curtains_?

_Good Lord,_ you think to yourself. _Why not commission a giant calligraphic list of everything you're trying to prove and just paste it across the walls...it would have been more efficient._

You're so distracted by the pretentious scenery that you forget why you were nervous...and briefly why you're even there. You blink in wonder, and scan the room for your “host”.

Dr Chilton is seated behind an ornate wooden desk at the left-hand side of the room, tapping idly away at the screen of an incongruously modern tablet computer. You notice he’s turned toward the right-hand wall, rather pointedly obscuring the damaged left side of his face. You also notice he has the gall to be sitting there with earbuds in while you try and greet him. He does not speak or acknowledge your presence until you've reached the desk, at which point he clears his throat, and removes one of the buds.

“Good Morning, Doctor,” he says casually, not looking up. “I hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding us.

“I…no, it was fine,” you reply, bemused by his indifference.

“Mm, good. Gloria has been pestering the web people to update the directions on our website, but apparently it takes more time to upload one map to the internet than it does to build an actual freeway.”

You don’t know what you were expecting from this meeting, but you’re a bit offended now. You should be, really, for if nothing else this is a professional interview between potential colleagues, initiated by _his office_ , and here he is acting like some kind of bored teenager. Normally you’d have some choice words for someone who disrespected your time so rudely, but this was an unusual (and sensitive) situation. You try and be diplomatic:

“Is this not…a good time?”

He glances up at you, head cocked to one side.

“Yes, of course it is. That’s why you have an appointment.” He says, with a twinge of condescension.

You stare.

“You may sit down at any time.”

Dumbfounded, you seat yourself awkwardly in the nearest chair, making no effort to mask your irritation. You refuse to accept that he’s actually this clueless, and wonder what is really going on. Is this really about a job, or the Gala, or…

Oh God, the letter. You can’t even remember what you wrote…who knows what god-awful embarrassing garbage was in there. That said, it would be pretty twisted of him to play mind games.

And why would he mess with you like this when you’d been so open and contrite (you're pretty sure)? You’d bared your soul (probably)! Maybe he never got it. That must be it. To exploit your guilt after you’d left yourself so exposed? He’d have to be some kind of sadist.

He’s looking at you now, waiting for you to make the next move. As if he hadn’t invited _you_ to his office. His eyes (or what you can see of them) are cold but attentive; his expression half-sneering, half indifferent. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling he’s not letting anything show. Honestly this is becoming upsetting. Such a drastic change from the old times…but no, stop. Don’t think about that right now. If you really are being provoked, don’t give him the satisfaction.

You take a breath in, and try to re-rail this thing (whatever “this thing” is):

“So, Dr Chilton, I read the anonymized patient summaries that you sent, and…they were quite compelling. Complex diagnoses are an area of special interest for me, and I've been conducting research at the Institute around the refinement of diagnostic tools and procedures for complex mental health patients, so I think I could be a resource from that perspective.”

“I have no doubts about that.”

The compliment throws you, especially because it seems sincere. You relax a small bit, and wonder if you’d just been misreading things. Well of course you are! It's so obvious! He's as nervous as you are, naturally. He's only been compensating.

“I’m certainly interested in the work, and flattered that you’d consider me. My only reservation is that, as you know, my expertise is in trauma and recovery, not criminal pathology. I worry that the sort of patients you tend to encounter here are a little outside of my wheelhouse.”

He must have been expecting that, because he doesn’t miss a beat:

“The two patients with whom we are concerned are themselves survivors of violent trauma; in fact, that is a key part of their complaint to the state. So you see, Doctor, these cases fits quite comfortably into your 'wheelhouse'.”

You nod, and relax a bit further. It may sound detached, but his voice still has the smooth slightly lyrical quality that you once found so captivating. You wonder what else of “Your Chilton” is still there. He still cuts a handsome profile (exclusively, at the moment), still constantly fiddles with objects on his desk. You shouldn’t be thinking of these things right now, but it makes you smile anyway.

“Well,” you ask, “what happens next? Is there a panel interview? Will you need copies of published work, references?”

“Hm? Oh, no. If you want the job, it’s yours.”

“Wait, I thought this was just an interview?”

“Oh, there was never any question about it. You are the ideal candidate for this role. There isn’t anyone in the region more qualified.”

You find this extremely difficult to believe. You're barely out of residency!

“I...thank you. But, why call it an interview?”

“A formality” he said blithely. “Take a few days to think about it, if you need to. But we’ll need an answer by Friday.”

This is all so unexpected, you’re not certain what to do next. The work was genuinely compelling, but…working with Dr Chilton?

“C-can I ask a question?”

“Of course”

“Who will I actually…be working with?”

“A team consisting of social workers, a developmental psychologist, nurses, legal advisers and two other psychiatrists—myself included.”

So you would be working with him. Directly. With Dr Chilton.

If you’re ever going to be able manage that, you know at the very least the air needs to be cleared. Right now.

“I will think about it, but in the mean time I wanted to…”

You lose your nerve.

“Yes?”

“I want to apologize for the way I acted at the Winter Gala. It was unprofessional, it was rude, it was _deeply_ embarrassing and if it made that night more difficult for you than it already was I am so sorry that I caused that.”

You’ve leaned forward, your hands half resting on the desk, eyes turned sheepishly upward in a small gesture of penitence. He can’t be more than four feet away...almost close enough to touch.

He’s silent for a moment, his expression unchanged.

“Yes, I know. You expounded quite heavily on the topic in your letter.”

Your mouth falls open.

“I…I’m sorry if that was weird, I was upset and I’d had—“

“Something to drink? Yes, that was obvious from the content and length—To say nothing of the _phrasing_ …” he says snidely.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. To hear disdain in that voice, and know it’s for _you_ …your stomach slowly knots itself. You feel queasy. He continues:

“I hope you won’t consider me dishonest not mentioning this earlier, but since you raised the subject I must confess that I do have some concerns about our working together.”

“Wait, then I _don’t_ have the job yet?”

“Oh no, it’s yours. You were selected because your individual talents would make you an invaluable addition to our team. But that was a committee decision, not an individual one.”

Your heart falls.

“So…you disagree?”

“I have no doubt about your professional abilities, Doctor…or, I suppose I should say “your potential”. And I trust that your regular bedside manner is of a far higher standard than what I had the _pleasure_ of receiving—otherwise you would never have finished your residency.  My concerns are...personal.”

The knot tightens. Why is he doing this? What is he trying to do?

“It’s obvious that our past history has given you some reservations about working with me, specifically. I don’t know if it occurred to you that I might have some of my own…especially considering the events of our _last_ meeting?”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair. This is well past awkward, in fact it's downright sinister: First he feigns disinterest, then reassures you, then just when you start to feel secure he pulls the rug out from under you? You’re being manipulated, your guilt and sincerity used to...what, exactly? What’s the goal? To assert some kind of dominance? You don’t know his reasons, but you’re certain that there is something awful at the end of all of this, and the longer he draws it out the more it upsets you. Is this really the same man you knew those years ago?

You sit up to defend yourself, but just as you open your mouth to speak, he turns away and opens a side drawer of his desk. A familiar-looking envelope appears in his hands.

“I suppose you feel that you’ve absolved yourself with this, hm?”

He produces your letter with a flourish, holds it over you with a sardonic raise of the eyebrow.  You realize with disgust: he is brandishing your heartfelt confession like a _weapon._

“Wh-no! That’s not why I wrote it, I—“

“You misbehaved at a public function, embarrassing yourself and an estranged acquaintance who at the time was an object of public sympathy. You don’t know who was watching, if any of them were important, etc—A potentially grave social misstep at such a delicate point in your young career…

Tell me, was this some sloppy drunken attempt at damage control?”

“NO!” you cry out.

He seems surprised by your outburst. Enough to shut him up for a moment, anyway.

You don't know how this is effecting you so badly, but you’re choking back tears. It was a terrible mistake coming here, and you know you should stop everything, call him out and then leave. You want to walk out of those doors and never have to *think* of this barbaric place again, or what it’s done to the decent, kind man you once knew.

The one your sweet young heart had idolized.

But you don’t move. As much as you want to leave, there’s another part of you that wants—no, _needs_ —answers. How did this happen to him, how low had he really sunk...and what about these two patients? Hell, all of his patients—did he pull this kind of shit with them?! You want to know what is going on in this creepy hospital, but with a small pang of guilt you realize it’s not really your professional or moral concern that holds you…it’s the man sitting in front of you, trying to unravel your confidence for God only knows what purpose.

And the worst part is that it’s _working_. You know what he’s trying to do: He’s chastising you like you’re some insolent child, and it’s _infuriating_ —but you still feel guilty, and embarrassed and small.

And yet, through this entire meeting two things have kept flashing in your mind: The first is that old special smile…the one that belonged to you. The second is that moment at the Gala buffet, when you looked into his face and saw a scared, fragile human being who looked certain that at any moment the ground would crack open and swallow him into the Earth.

You look up at him, eyes wounded and pleading. Another flash of surprise on his face, but only briefly. Perhaps a glimpse of someone softer?

You give up trying to talk your way out of this nightmare…you’re too confused and upset. There’s only one thing you want to know, so you ask in a small bewildered voice:

“Why are you _doing_ this?”

Dr Chilton stiffens. His jaw sets, but from the look on his face there’s something he’s fighting back. You hold your pleading gaze, and you could swear his eyes have softened, but after a moment it’s gone. He sighs theatrically and relaxes, and the contempt vanishes from his voice.

“The plain fact of the matter is this: You embarrassed me, and picked a very unfortunate time to do so. That has not been resolved to my satisfaction, and for me to consent to working with you there are a few things that we need to get _straight_.”

“ _Fat chance I’ll work anywhere near you, now._ ” you think to yourself.

“The most obvious of these is something that we will settle right now: It may seem that I’ve been purposely concealing my face, and that is because I have been. I am understandably uncomfortable with being _stared_ at, and thus I am very keen to end your apparent fascination with my injuries. So...”

He turns at the shoulders to face you, places his elbows on the desk and rests his chin casually on folded hands. His eyes are fixed cooly on yours, but he's looking _through_ you. All you can do is stare back into them.

“So, he we are. I apologize if it's not as exciting as you remember”

You look down. There’s nothing exciting about it.  A spot of knotted tissue just under his cheekbone, a few thin subtle lines around the eye and jaw. 

“You were a curious young woman, and I doubt that has changed, but I am a man who values my privacy, so here is all you get: No permanent spinal cord damage. C1 and C2 fractures, 12 weeks in a halo brace, ongoing rehabilitation and the fond acquaintance of a gifted maxillofacial surgeon.

"Her name is Dr Singh.  She bowls!”

You nod sympathetically, if quizzically. There are so many more questions, but you're too self-conscious to ask them. He has the wrong idea about you, and you don't want to make it worse.

You want to tell him: It wasn't the _wound_ that was so shocking—but you can't even begin to articulate this. You're struggling for anything to say, if you're honest. He raises one eyebrow and says cooly:

“So...is that satisfactory?”

“Uh, yes. Of course, thank you.”

He seems unconvinced.

“Mm...for now, anyway.”

He sniffs, pauses, and then rises smoothly to his feet. He's leans lightly on an ornate black and silver cane, and it taps gently on the floor as he strides to the corner window and turns to look out over the hospital gardens. In the moment of silence that follows, you wonder how many patients have ever seen them. Sunlight pours in from the window, splashes through his hair and surrounds him in a glowing aura of light.

“Thing number two.”

The sarcasm has fallen from his voice. He turns his shoulders towards you, stares at the far wall. You look at his face and for a moment you're breathless. The light has softened the lines of his face, washed away the harshness of years. He's not smirking, or scowling...just staring absently across the room. You can finally _see_ him— _your_ Chilton. And suddenly his suit seems quite smart, with everything impeccably fitted. Even the cane suits him. You glance down at the hand perched on top, as it taps and turns the shining silver handle. For a moment it seems like light is dancing from the tips of his fingers. Ugh. You used to get so distracted watching those hands.

A deep and wistful ache rises in your chest:

_He can't be gone...not really...right?_

When you look back up, you realize with a start that he's looking back at you. His expression is unreadable, but in his eyes there is something that seems almost like...sadness. You open your mouth to say something—anything! But he interrupts you:

“The past is in the past: Everything and everyone that existed within it is gone. There is a man there who you knew for a short while, many years ago. That man is _dead_. Disabuse yourself of the notion that he is merely disguised or lying dormant…he is gone, and he is not coming back.”

You're crushed, but that feeling is soon replaced with irritation:

_"What the hell is wrong with me?_ _Why am I holding on to this stupid schoolgirl nonsense? Why do I even care?"_

Dr Chilton returns to his desk, but remains standing. His face has hardened, his jaw set tight. His tone is harsher now, tinged with resentment.

“The final one: _I am not your patient_ , Doctor.  I will not tolerate you treating me as if I were.”

Your mouth falls open.  Again.

“What? I would never—“

“Yes, you _would_!” he snaps back, startling you into silence.

“You did it at the Gala, you did it in your letter, and you’re doing it _right now_.”

That's it. You've had enough of his emotional pinballing bullshit.

“What the hell are you talking about? All I’ve done is sit here while you insult me!”

He leans in closer. His voice is quiet, but brimming with cold rage.

“Exactly. You can’t possibly think I’ve been _reasonable_. From the moment you walked in that door I have disrespected you, talked _down_ to you, berated you…I have been patently _abusive_ but you’ve just sat there and _taken it_. By all rights you should have told me to go fuck myself within minutes, but instead you’ve stayed quiet—you actually let me _hurt_ you!”

You're working up some rage of your own, so you shoot the dirtiest stare you can muster.  What the  _fuck_  is he playing at?

“The way I see it, there are two reasons that you may have done this,

The first: you have no self-respect, but have somehow passively landed on the path to an illustrious career while letting people walk all over you. That seems unlikely to me. I prefer the second option: You saw me in a moment of weakness, you have decided that I am fragile and you should therefore treat me delicately. So, you excuse behavior that you would never suffer from anyone other than a particularly damaged patient...or a child. Not only is that patronizing—I consider it an insulting indictment of my character.”

In a flash, your anger yields to shock, and then guilt. This hadn't even occurred to you...and while he's only half-right, it's enough to cow you.

“For the record, I do appreciate your apology, and you may consider it accepted.  I never doubted its sincerity or candidness, and it is clear to me you were motivated by compassion rather than self-interest."  

He's calmer now.  Almost conversational.  The way he swings back and forth is disconcerting, but something tells you that's over now.

_"However…_ I cannot tolerate being treated with kid gloves by _a former student_ , herself so vastly my junior in the field where I have distinguished myself for 15 years...in my place of work, or anywhere else.”

It all makes sense now:  he's not trying to dominate you, he's trying to regain a sense of _control_ after a profound trauma.  It seems so obvious now!  It doesn't excuse his behavior, but at least there's something _reasonable_ underneath all of it.  And now you are just two adults, resolving a conflict like mature individuals—even if that snarky tone had crept back into his voice.  You don't trust him by any means, but you're finally back in your comfort zone.

“...you're absolutely right.” you say calmly, sincerely.  “I didn't even realize that's what I was doing, but you're right!  It was extremely disrespectful, and I apologize. It won't happen anymore.”

“Thank you, doctor. I accept.”

He smiles amiably.

“Well, good.” he says. “I'll consider the matter settled.”

You exhale. Ugh, thank god that's over. Maybe this will work. You'll have to keep him at arm's length, obviously, but you're feeling hopeful.

"Now...if you are willing, there is one last thing I would ask from you.”

“Of course.”

His smile curls into an expression that you can only describe as “sinister”. 

“Excellent.”

Oh dear.  He stares at you for a moment, eyes scanning up and down your figure.

“Go stand in front of the mirror.”

 

And you blink so hard it nearly sprains an eyebrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mindfuck, emotionally abusive dynamics
> 
> Notes: This whole scene was going to be one chapter, but I got into playing with character dynamics and it got a bit lengthier. Hopefully there's fun stuff :) 
> 
> Next chapter: "A Proper Apology".


	4. Terms and Conditions, or:  How to Realign Your Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your 'interview' with Dr Chilton has taken a strange and ominous turn, and you have a rather unexpected decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon note: Season 3 has started and now I'm thinking about how this fits into the timeline. In my head this is concurrent with S3 (for now, oh God, what am I doing to myself). This scene is happening somewhere among the events of Aperitivo, while Chilton spends what seems like months trying to get anyone who was a victim of the finale to be his Damage Friend (poor bb). It doesn't actually change anything important about the events, but it works really well for motivation and haha I didn't even plan this, Bryan Fuller you are a benevolent and generous god, please someone save this show from death aaaaa.
> 
> Speaking of which: Oh God it has been so long I am sorry. Basically, I'm extremely new to fic, and I started posting these before I was really 'ready' (in a headspace kind of way). The idea was to put something out there before I talked myself out of it*), but it's been a million years since I've written fiction in any structured way, so I've got all those bad habits back where you obsess and go back and poke and then OH GOD IT NEVER ENDS. This (and the next) chapter ended up being really difficult to write, because there are so many things I was trying to establish. And then time got away and some Things Happened, and now it's July omg what is time, even? Anyway, the next chapter after this is basically done (heh heh), and I have outlines for the two after that, and I *think* I'm in a place now where I can balance writing with uh...doing anything else with my time :P
> 
> Thank you guys for all of your kudos and comments, it's been really encouraging! And well, so was Season 3, Ep 4...not gonna lie.
> 
>  
> 
> *haha, how...appropriate

“Go stand in front of the mirror.”

“What?”

“On the wall to your left is a mirror. I am telling you to get up, walk to it and stand so that you are facing it.”

You stare incredulously.

“You seem to be having trouble with auditory comprehension. Should I explain to you what a mirror is?”

“What are you trying to do, here?”

Chilton sniffs.

“I’m trying to get a fully developed adult with a medical degree to follow what I had  _assumed_ was basic sequence of instructions, but apparently I have underestimated the difficulty curve.”

Oh, not this again.  No way.  This is way beyond the pale now, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to sit through another round of power-tripping mindfuck nonsense.  Your hand is up before he can speak again, pointing defiantly in his face. 

“ _No._ You are going to stop, _right now_ , and explain to me what this creepy headmaster act is about, and what it could possibly have to do with a job that _you invited me_ to take.”

He shrugs, unperturbed.

“Nothing. We’ve covered the job: if you want it it’s yours. You have 3 days to decide, and we the committee do sincerely hope that you will accept. This is no longer an interview, that topic has closed, we are now talking about personal matters.”

“I thought we just settled all of that…”

“Those were merely my terms for working with you. I am now satisfied that you will conduct yourself professionally, and that I will be able to work with you without discomfort.  What this “creepy headmaster act” is about is a matter of you, me and that evening.”

“I don’t understand…you said you’d accepted my apology?”

“Yes, as a professional. On a personal level, I am afraid it will take more than your remorse for me to move on.”

"What does that have to do with--"

He interrupts you:

“You have a strong sense of empathy, Dr Price. You always have. This is something that sets you apart from many more experienced people in your field, even if you cannot currently appreciate this _._ While you most certainly humiliated me that evening, you realized this. You knew what you did was wrong, and the reasons why, and you felt compelled to make amends. Your apology was made in good faith, and undeniably...heartfelt. But that is not what I need.”

“Then I don’t understand.” you say, gesturing towards the mirror. “What do you ‘need’, why does it matter to me, and why does it involve… _this?_ ”

He responds calmly:

“In spite how it may seem, I have not really been trying to manipulate you; nor do I wish to drag out any guilt or anxiety you may still have. I have no use for your guilt, and your transgression is far too mild to have inspired any desire for vengeance...or whatever else you may be imagining. I do not want you to _torture you_ _,_ Doctor, it is simply about this: In my view, it is impossible for an individual to make a truly meaningful apology until they understand the damage that was done, not academically but *instinctively*.  You know why what you did was wrong, you know why it caused harm, and so you feel bad. And, it seems?  You would like to 'get to know me', which is certainly flattering.  I have been exploited by persons I allowed to know me, and they used that knowledge to do me grievous harm. I am understandably cautious about what company I choose to keep outside of any work or social obligations.  At a minimum, I require an _understanding_ of what I have been through."  
  
"But you just said I *did*..."  
  
"No, I said you could *identify* the wrong.  You lack the experience to directly relate to my circumstances, so your empathy is based on extrapolation and, so, it will necessarily be 'academic'. I need a more _visceral_ understanding. I need for you to recall those events and to _feel_ the reasons that something so ostensibly trivial was, under those circumstances, so damaging.  
  
"There are a few steps that must taken to achieve this. First: you need to first understand powerlessness. For that you must first know what it _feels_ like to have control stripped away from you until you have none left, over anything...even your own body.

"So. What I am proposing now is that you agree to go stand in front of that mirror, where you will do everything I tell you to, until I say it is time to stop.”

Your skin is crawling, but it’s not from _what_ he’s saying so much as how nonchalant he seems about all of it. You’d be horrified if it wasn’t so absurd.

“…what the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

“Quite a number of things—many to a degree of severity I do not think you would care to discover. Take this as a disclaimer.”

You're certain he's being facetious—mostly.  At least? But there is a darkness in his eyes that you’d rather not provoke.

“And what happens if I refuse?”

Chilton shrugs. Again.

“Nothing. Our meeting is over, you walk out of here. Whatever you decide about the inquiry panel, we never speak of this again. I will not hold it against you, and it will have no impact on any working relationship we may have. Just don’t expect any meaningful interaction with me beyond that.”

“And, why would I care about that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should see what your letter has to say.”

It's a cheap play on his part, but it works.

“What does that have to do with it?!” you blurt, a little too defensively.

His head shakes with a sigh.

“You have so many _questions_ for me, Doctor, but it seems you cannot yet bring yourself to ask the ones you think are truly  _important_. It is clear to me that, in spite of everything I have done today, you are still looking for answers. Am I wrong?”

Well no, but you won't give him the satisfaction of saying it.  The scowl on your face is telling enough as it is.

“I thought not. _So_...you have questions, the answers to which you are in no way entitled. If you leave right now, it will not matter how many hours you spend working alongside me, you will not learn any of the things you are seeking. I suspect, though I could be wrong, that you would find that sufficiently frustrating that you would either quit or refuse outright, and in so doing sabotage a golden career opportunity for the sake of your emotional well being.  A fair and understandable decision, but still--it seems like a terrible waste.”

Well, that was dubious.

“So...you want to "help me" get what you think I'm really here for, and your "helpful" solution is to emotionally blackmail me into...whatever this is?”

Chilton gasps with a sarcastic flourish.

“Emotional blackmail?” he laughs incredulously. “You want private information about _me!_  12 years, no contact--not even a Christmas Card--and you approach  _me._ You send  _me_  a 5 page letter falling over yourself to be forgiven for something _you_ did, and now you have come into my place of work expecting...what?  A poem?  Clearly you this this job is a pretext, but I assure you that it is both very realm, and that your name being raised entirely by coincidence.  I tell you truthfully, it was nothing to do with me.”

He notes your look of suspicion.

“Look, Dr Price" he sighs again, "I am being frank and forthright here. I am not threatening to withhold employment, or to disrespect you as a colleague. I am simply explaining that in this particular circumstance my personal and professional concerns are...differently aligned.

“Nothing that would interfere with a working relationship, but...”

He pauses.

“It seems to me what you really want is to be my 'friend'.  Well my dear, friendship requires trust, and as I said earlier:  These days?  Mine comes at a premium."

He's been a slippery bastard, but you can't help feeling a little humbled.  He may be playing on your insecurities, but he's not  **wrong.** Technically.

"As I said, it would be a terrible shame to let that ruin an exciting career opportunity, so I have an idea that—if successful—might appease both of us.”

Your suspicion deepens.

“What idea is that?” you ask.

“Nothing too onerous, I assure you.  Just a little therapeutic role play.”

“...and what does 'role play' mean in this instance?”

“A simple experiment in broadening empathy through understanding.”

He turns theatrically on his heel to face the wall, while your brow furrows.

“That isn't an answer. Tell me--”

He cuts you off with a raised hand.

“Ah! I wasn't done yet! Really Doctor, you must learn how to be more patient.”

He swings back around to face you with an even smarmier grin than before.

“Now then, here are the rules: This room is my office. Outside of this room we are colleagues, and our interactions are completely normal. I will have some say over your duties, but as a senior member of an independent team, unrelated to my role at this hospital. Beyond that it is a (mostly) egalitarian arrangement, just as it should be. You should not act any differently than you would in any other work environment—that includes when critiquing my work or opposing my conclusions.

His his eyes narrow, and the smile becomes suddenly...devious. His expression conjures the image of a cartoon snake in the midst of charming an unwary mouse into its coils.  You shudder. It's not entirely unpleasant.

“ _However_ _”_ he drawls sonorously:

“When you are in this room, I am _in charge_. This means I have absolute authority over you. You will do everything I tell you to— _exactly_ as I instruct—and you will do it without question or complaint. If you do not comply, you will be _corrected_. If your performance is satisfactory, however, you may receive some of the answers you seek, plus… _other_ benefits.”

Wait. He can't mean...

“…what do you mean by ‘other benefits’?”

“You’re a clever girl, I think you can figure it out.”

You are fairly certain that Dr Chilton has just offered you some kind of kinky sex pact, but you're not sure which is more shocking: that this is happening at all, or that you're not completely repulsed by the idea. In fact it's starting to seem oddly appealing.  Meanwhile his face is a picture of calm, his eyes two pools of tranquil gray…but there’s a predatory glimmer just beneath their surface that sends a shiver down your neck, and a warm queasy flutter to the pit of your stomach. You realize with dismay: there's a feeling you've been ignoring for some time, and in spite of your general disgust with the man, that feeling is 'arousal'.

Of all the ways you’d fantasized about him, you had never imagined something quite like this. It’s a ludicrous idea, of course. You’d be out of your tree to agree to something so reckless, especially when it’s clear that the only way such a thing could end is  _disaster_. But he’s right: you *do* want answers.  About Dr Chilton, sure, but you’re a curious person in general, one naturally drawn to the stranger sides of human behavior...and this is certainly strange. Maybe that’s also why you’re actually attracted to this poncy caricature of a man you once admired, but even after you discount everything else there’s still that very basic part of you that always always feels compelled to find out what happens next.

Oh, and those damn sex dreams aren’t helping, either.

You’re not sure you can trust yourself with a decision just yet, but Chilton is becoming impatient. He calls back your attention with pointed “ _ehem”_ , and pulls out his phone.

“Right. I have made a generous amount of my day available to you, but my time is not unlimited. So this is what is going to happen: I am setting a timer. You will have 5 minutes to consider my idea and review its conditions. If you have any relevant questions then you are free to ask them. Understood? Yes? Good. Time starts now.”

You’re caught out by the sudden pressure, but you won't let it force your hand. If you can ask questions, then you’re damn well going to.

“So if I stay, what happens next?”

“Well, I _hope_ you’ll go stand by the fucking mirror, already.”

“ _After_ that.”

An innocent shrug.

“Not sure. I Haven’t decided yet”

Christ, is he kidding?  You remain calm.

“…what are you deciding between?”

“That would be telling,” he says with a mischievous smile.

He’s having far too much fun with this, and it’s getting on your nerves.

“So how do I know what I’m actually consenting to?”

He leans in.

“You don’t. _That’s the point._ ”

“How is that consent?”

“Consent is communicated by your presence. When you walk into this room you are consenting to whatever might happen while you are inside of it. You withdraw that consent by leaving, or stating your intent to do so. If you state that you want to leave, you will not be prevented from doing so. You will never have to come here unless you want to, and should you choose not to there will be no hindrance to your work or social life.

By the way, you’ve just wasted the first minute. I would think more carefully how you use the next one.”

“No, hold on: so my only choice is whether or not I walk in here?. How is that—“

“For the last _time,_ Doctor, that is the entire purpose of this. You get _one choice._ You don’t get to know what happens next. You are at the mercy of someone whose purpose is vague and menacing, and whose goals you cannot know. My aim is to teach you what it means to have no control, and that means ensuring that as you wonder what could be coming next, your imagination is not constrained by any foreknowledge or understood limitations. You have one choice...but do not underestimate its value: You get to choose when and for how long your power is taken. Most people do not get that luxury.

I certainly didn’t.”

You feel a small pang of sympathy, but hardly enough to cow you.  If you're going to agree to this, there's something you *need* from him.  Something that gives your more sensible side permission to trust.  Just enough.  Dr Chilton, meanwhile, has become suddenly more...casual.

“Three and a half minutes left. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here at all. I thought you had more sense. But then, if the last 18 months have taught me anything, it is that I have substantially overestimated my talent with character assessment.”

“So you think I should leave”

“What I think is irrelevant.”

Slippery bastard. Still, you have an idea.

“What do you _want_ me to do?”

“I _want_ you to make a decision”

“So, you don’t care which one I pick?”

“Either choice, the outcome is one I find acceptable: You say no, and a decent human being walks out of this room—and my influence—without corruption or damage. If you stay?”

He makes a show of leaning forward, bringing his chin to rest on folded hands. His smile widens:

“We get to have adventures!”

On the surface this just seems like another dodge, but there's an odd kind of sincerity in his tone—almost like he's as torn between the two as you are. This is strangely comforting...and maybe that's enough. You press onward, emboldened:

“…and you’re going to insult me.”

“Yes.”

“Hurt me?”

“Possibly.”

“How…badly?”

“There are a lot of ways to hurt someone. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“ _Physically,_ ” you huff impatiently.

“…I'm not out to *injure* you, if that' your concern. Physical pain is not the point of the exercise.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

Dr Chilton leans back with a decidedly theatrical sigh.

“My dear, it comes down to one simple thing: You are going to have to decide how much you trust me. Listen to what your instincts tell you, and let that guide your decision.

“Assuming you can trust _them_ , of course _._ ”

You can feel your eyes narrow. Yes you _do_ , in fact...it's just that right now they're pulling you in two different directions. One part of you is all red flags and flight response, but in your heart of hearts you want to stay. At this point your curiosity is more aroused than your body, and if you leave this bizarre place you will never get to find out what happens next. The idea of that is just intolerable.

And when it comes down it, underneath everything else is a stern little voice that insists Dr Chilton would never _really_ hurt you. Or anyone.  It has to be true, or...look, it just does.  You're certain.  End of story.

You decide that you've found what you 'needed', and you've made up your mind. That being the case there isn't much point in asking any more questions (not that you were getting real answers, anyway). You nod resolutely and look him right in the eyes:

“All right, then.”

Chilton blinks in surprise. The playful smile falls from his face, and he gawks for a moment before composing himself.  So, you called his bluff? Interesting.

Seconds slip away, and when he breaks his silence, his face is a mask:

“Listen.”

His voice is low, deadly, and uncharacteristically earnest.   _  
_

“I will say one thing sincerely and without pretense: You should leave. You should get as far away from this place as you possibly can and never look back. When your name came up I should have refused it, I should never have opened that letter, and I absolutely _never_ should have invited you into this... _place_.”

He spits out “place” like it's rotten. Dramatic as he may sound, this does not seem like an act.

“I am not worth knowing,” he says quietly, and with a tinge of remorse. “Certainly not for the price you will end up paying.”

Dr Chilton turns away momentarily, gazing absently towards the corner of the room, revealing once again the knotted crater of flesh on his cheek. You scan over it once again, only this time you notice them: telltale strokes of pigment, a subtle bit of caking around the edges. He's done quite a decent job of applying it, but it's always the same with make-up and blemishes: the closer you get, the harder it is not to notice. And there's something very peculiar

This institution has been poisoned by an individual whose influence is chaotic, and seemingly infinite in reach. It has acquired a darkness that infects everyone who lingers within its walls. If you think I am being melodramatic, Doctor, let me remind you: I am the one who looks down over _all of it_. ”

The hairs of your neck are stood on end, but he could still be bluffing. Or just exaggerating! Things here couldn't possibly be so _d_ _ire_...you aren't in an opera, for God's sake. You try calling him on it:

“If you wanted me to leave, you'd stop all this overblown posturing and just _tell_ me to.”

“Yes, if I was a decent person, that is exactly what I would do. Correct. You have 30 seconds.”

He's deflecting...something is off.  And then a light goes off in your head:

“Wait a minute... _you're_ the one who can't make their mind up.  That's why we're still even here...you don't want me to decide for myself, you want me to make a decision so _you don't have to!”_

His mouth sinks into an unflattering pout, which is downright thrilling (in the circumstances).

“Think what you want, _Doctor._ ” he says snidely.

“I will.”

“You have entirely the wrong attitude about this situation, young lady. If you are not gone in 20 seconds I am going to _fix_ that.”

You smile coyly in return. 'Young lady', indeed!  There's a thrill in goading someone who gives such _satisfying_ reactions, and the fact that you've successfully annoyed him is just...exhilarating.   

“Well get on with it, then,” you say lightly.

You're very pleased to see his lip twitch, and now you're the one smirking. You want to keep pushing back, but you restrain yourself. You've made your decision. 

A familiar digital chirrup rings through the air.  Chilton taps the phone and places it firmly on the desk.

“...time's up”

Dr Chilton furrows his brow, glares uncertainly past your face. He was cross you'd caught him out, but you expected him to be pleased you were still here.  You can't be disappointed though, because this reaction is far more _interesting_. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. His eyes dart away, lips parted in mid-thought.  He leans back slowly into his chair, folds his hands. And then suddenly he's back, eyes boring straight into yours.  

A shiver runs down your spine and you heart is thudding urgently in your chest. You wait on a knife's edge for what's coming...you know what he wants from you (generally speaking) and what makes you so queasy is how willing you are to _give it to him_. It's a bad idea, but then so was this entire day.

You think about the last few weeks, the letter, and _dreams_...and now that creepy look on his face is the hottest thing you've seen in _years..._ though he now seems puzzled by whatever expression is on your face.  When he finally moves to speak you are certain that you're prepared for whatever is coming next.

He purses his lips, stands, and turns to face away from you:

“This is your last chance," he says curtly.  "I am going to count down quietly from 10. When I turn around, if you are not out of that door or on your way to it, then you have agreed to stay until I say you can leave.”

You know what he thinks. He doesn't believe you 'understand', thinks you're still holding out hope that you've melted his heart and turned him back into your schoolgirl fantasy sweetheart.  Well, joke's on him, because the last remnants of Your Chilton are in tatters at your feet, and right now you're angry—not at him, but at that stupid little girl in that dingy old office with her stupid crush on her imagined version of some pretty asshole—and even angrier that it still has a hold on you. Well, fuck that girl. Fuck her timorous little voice and her “proper” little Good Girl act. While we're at it, fuck “good ideas” too. You are tired, you are horny, and you are going to get **something** out of this awful, absurd day, and if kills this adolescent fixation in the process?

Good riddance.

“Okay,” you chirp, a smile in your voice.

You can hear the scowl just from his tone ( _nine, eight...)_ , but it's difficult to read him from behind. There's something in the way he's standing, the small movements of his body...it seems like he’s struggling against something. You'd made your decision, though, and if his hesitation offers you anything, it's more assurance that he's all bluster and no teeth.

Anyway, you can't leave now. You need to know what happens next.

As the numbers get lower, his voice begins to waver ( _five, four..._ ). He can tell you aren't moving. _Good_.

“One. _”_

He turns slowly.

His face is unreadable.

“Well. You're still here.” he says flatly.

“Yes I am.”

He looks at you in silence for what seems like an eternity.  

Then his face transforms.  He is still distant, but now amiable--even pleasant.  Ready to see you now, complete with a distorted version of that old special smile. The one only for you.

“Good. Then let's try this again...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Consent that is arguably dubious? I tried really hard to tell the story I wanted to in this chapter and still have 'you' clearly being into it (which is partially why it took so long), because that is I want from this story, but my Critical Reading Brain still looks this over and says 'god but so much mindfucking tho'. Basically I wrote the damn thing and *I'm* uncertain where that line is for this kind of scene, so...worth acknowledging, I think.
> 
> Chapter: Boy did this get long. I thought about breaking it into more chapters, but it just felt right leaving it as one 'chunk'? And I dunno about anybody else but I find one of the biggest draws of Chilton as a character is his voice, and that overwrought (but lyrical) way of speaking, so uh this is foreplay maybe? 
> 
> Also my not-entirely-in-head canon is that he's desperate for attention, but so in love with his own voice he can't shut up when someone is actually listening. So maybe it's foreplay for him too :P
> 
> Also 'you' have a name now, because that was getting really difficult to work around. I figured since I'm already making all these character decisions on behalf of the reader, I could treat this more like a first-person adventure game? I hope that still works for folks.
> 
> Next Chapter: SMUT SMUT FINALLY SMUT I PROMISE THIS TIME


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impromptu duel of wits is followed by a rousing first lesson on dominance and control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look it's some smut finally.
> 
> And it only took 10,000 words to get here.

“Go stand in front of that mirror.”

You take a deep breath and rise slowly from your chair, not breaking eye contact.  Your pulse throbs in the pit of your throat, sick and heavy.  You're resolved, but you still have enough sense to be nervous.  It's wise, considering the circumstances.

Chilton is looking impatient.

You bite your lip reflexively, which elicits a sharp draw of breath from your “captor”.  He blinks quickly, trying to be subtle, but his eyes are fixed on your mouth.  The quickened breath and faint flush in his cheeks makes it clear:  you're not the only one who finds this exciting.  The thought sends a tingling thrill skittering down the back of your neck.  You swallow nervously, watch as he follows the movement of your throat, downward along the in the lines of your neck, shoulders.  He lingers briefly at your chest, his eyes dilating as it swells with each nervous breath, then over the curve of your waist, hips, thighs, ankles…

The Doctor shakes his head, clears his throat and regains himself.

“Some time today, please.”

You pad softly but purposefully toward the opposite wall.  A few small steps and you can see yourself inside the mirror’s frame, approaching from an angle distorted by the glass—A strange effect that adds an extra layer of unreality to a scene that already stretches it.  You watch yourself draw nearer while  Chilton slides out of view.  You see yourself, and no one else.  Your face looks tired, your eyes dazed…but there’s something oddly captivating about all of it.  

“That’s close enough.  Stand up straight, face the mirror.”

You turn to look at the man behind the desk.  Back-lit by the windows, he’s all but a silhouette:  a blank space of the right size, right shape and voice to match a harried young lecturer stuffed into a cramped graduate office, ready to answer every question you’ve prepared for him today.  It’s not fooling you, of course, but it's lovely to think about.

“Face forward.  You are looking at yourself, not me.  And wipe that smile off of your face.”

You obey.  A minute passes, and you start getting antsy.

“So…what do I—“

“Do not speak until I tell you to.  What you are to do is nothing, until directed otherwise.”

You glance back to your reflection, who returns a puzzled frown.

Then comes the muffled creaking of a chair, and a shuffling of papers.  You instinctively turn your head, until a stern “ehem” reminds you to keep still.

He’s walking—maybe?   You can hear him coming, slowly. The tap of his cane on the carpet.  Somehow you had forgotten:  you have no idea what happens next.

The tapping stops.  You can’t see anything from the corner of your eyes, you look again to the other side but suddenly he’s right behind you.    

You jump.

“Since this is your first lesson I think it would be most constructive to use this time for training and…orientation.  As such you be granted more leeway than under normal circumstances.  The price for your mistakes will be extremely  generous.  Do not get used to this.  Is this clear?”

“Y—”

“Don't speak!” He snaps.  “Just shake yes or no. Understood?”

You nod.

“Good.  Now, try not to worry yourself too much…nothing too taxing or unpleasant, today.  Just a brief and...interactive, lecture.”

His voice trails off and something brushes against your hair.  You steal a peek and see with a delight that he’s stroking it with his hand.  Then two fingers appear at the side of your jaw, and draw your chin gently back to center.

“Face forward, dear,”  he says in a calm low voice,  just inches from your ear.  

A shiver runs down your spine (the nice kind now), and a familiar heat rises between your thighs.

“Do not look at me directly.  Only the reflection.”

Your eyes dart toward the glass in time to catch him walking out of frame.   

“I appreciate how odd this must seem,” he says with oratorical flair,  “but I assure you there is a reason for it.  As I have said several times, I want to help you to understand control.  Not the kind that you lose—the kind that is taken.”

Chilton reappears behind you, as haughty and smug-faced as you'd ever seen him, but now...menacing.

“...Completely.  Utterly.  Until there is nothing you can do but wait and see what whoever holds it has planned for you.”

He moves behind you again, and sweeps your hair off of your shoulder.

“Of course, I would never subject anyone to the heights of terror that I have experienced.   That would make me a sociopath—which, contrary to several recent speculations, I am not.  That said, there are several...let us call them “analogues”, that can still effectively help one grasp the fundamentals.  

“...some of these you may find are not entirely unpleasant.”

He runs the back of his hand down the side of you neck, to the gold pendant sitting at the nape.

“This is very pretty,” he says idly, fingering its delicate chain.  “It may stay.”

You swallow hard.  Before you have time to ponder his meaning, a hand presses flat against your shoulder and slides its way across your chest and beneath the collar of your shirt, seeking what lies beneath.  There's a gentle pull on your camisole, then bra strap, and the hand returns to rest gently on your throat.  Nerves aside, you already you wish he would tear everything off of you right now and throw you down on the couch...but you merely shudder as he strokes the back of his finger up and down your throat.  You watch your face flush slightly.  He continues:

“As you will already know, there are several categories of violent psychopath, organized according to motive for violence and the methods through which that motive is...expressed.  For the purpose of the exercise we shall use as our example the 'sexual sadist'.  I'm sure you will recall all of this, but just in case:   Through varying combinations of genetic, environmental and biochemical triggers, the sexual drives and urges of the sexual sadist have been subverted such that pain, domination and violence have replaced the normal channels for arousal and sexual satisfaction.  If the condition is left unmanaged, then inflicting fear and pain on others will eventually become the only avenue the subject has for their sexual release.”

You're certain he's only saying all of this to scare you.  

Well...mostly.

“The thing about abduction, imprisonment, restraint—in the hands of an intelligent psychopath so motivated, it is not truly about the physical assaults, but the psychological.  His real pleasure is derived from crafting a sense of helplessness, fear, dread…that is his main source of stimulation.  It has always been my assertion that the basic psychological unpinnings of this process are similar—if not identical—to those with 'healthy' sexual drives.  For example: as with most normal individuals, his version of 'foreplay' boils down to what is ultimately about savoring the...”

His mouth is just inches from your ear as he whispers:

“anticipation.”

You turn your head towards the sound—you can't help yourself.  The words are gruesomely clinical, and clearly meant to frighten you, and good Lord but he does love the sound of his own voice. But argh, that voice.   Creepy as it is you still you want that mouth, those hands all over you.

A sharp smack rings in your ears, and a slow pulse of heat rolls outward from your cheek. You squeak in surprise.

“You are new to this,” he says sternly, “so I will give you the benefit of doubt and assume that these are errors of a novice in good faith, and not acts of defiance.”

He holds your chin firmly in position, starting straight into (the reflection of) your eyes.

“But this is the last time I will remind you:  You do not move, you do not turn your head and you do not look directly at me.  The next time you disobey any one of these very simple rules, there will be consequences.

“In the meantime, it seems from your demeanor that you do not appreciate your situation.  It seems I will have to help you acquire a more appropriate one.”

Two hands snake around your shoulders, and begin unbuttoning your dress shirt. Your heart thumps in your chest.

“You have a somewhat keen insight into the atypical mind, doctor, but you are still inexperienced.  I have interviewed and counseled hundreds of violent psychopaths.  A few I've gotten to know a bit...more closely than I'd have liked.  After a time certain patterns emerge and a few things become clear.  For one: a skilled individual knows how to make time work for them...they can draw out the fear until it slows to a crawl.  Minutes feel like hours, hours feel like days...the key is to tease at your fate without revealing too much”

He draws your shirt open, and pulls it off of your shoulders, grazing one still-covered nipple with a fingernail as he goes.  You gasp.   The shirt slides off of your arms and onto the floor.  He pauses to admire the clearer outline of your waist and breasts, then rests his hands on your shoulders.

“Remember...all you can do is watch.”

Goosebumps prickle beneath his fingers as they slide down your back to the clasp of your skirt.  Your pulse quickens as you hear the zipper.   There’s a quick tug and you watch as it falls from your hips into a ring around your feet, exposing your bare thighs and panties.  He admires both while you blush deeply.  Somehow it hadn't actually occurred to you that this would involve you in your underwear...at least not while frozen like some kind of horny store mannequin, and definitely not having to watch yourself.   Your plain cotton panties seem suddenly lurid, only...oh God.  These are the ones with owls on them.

Things have taken a turn into some teen nightmare cliché, and now you couldn’t move if you wanted to. All that’s missing is the exam you forgot to prepare for.  Chilton watches you squirm with a grim satisfaction, but his own cheeks seem a fair bit rosier, themselves…

“That's more like it.  I think you have a better grasp of where you stand, now.”

Oh, and no pantyhose?  A bold choice for April.”

You move to cross your legs, but his cane appears between them, resting gently on the sensitive meat of your inner thigh.

“Ah-ah!  I wouldn't do that.  Don't be too concerned with your whimsical choice of underthings...they won't be staying long.”

If you *could* move right now, you’re not certain whether you’d squeal and run away, or to pull them off yourself.  Two competing voices shout in your head: “Not yet!” and “RIGHT NOW!”  You don’t know which one to trust.

And now his hands are back--warm, soft and dextrous--sliding the straps of your camisole from your shoulders to dangle at your sides.  He pushes it down over your hips, and it joins your rumpled skirt on the floor.  You weren’t expecting anyone to see you with your clothes off, and your bra is a dramatically mismatched sheer black affair that makes for a frankly goofy contrast with your...owls.  It takes every ounce of will not to try and cover yourself.  Dr Chilton raises an eyebrow, and nods in approval (though it’s not much consolation, really).  You blush even deeper as his eyes travel down to your bare waist, and when you can bear to look again he seems to be staring at...your stomach?

His expression is one you can't name.  His jaw is slack, brow fallen, but his eyes are transfixed on your belly.  Something in them is so unsettling that for a moment you forget your embarrassment, and remember your fear.  What if he wasn’t actually bluffing?  What if 'your captor' has designs that really are darker than a little slap and tickle?  You remember his warning, now, as your heartbeat grows loud in your ears.  Melodramatic it certainly was, but he did seem sincere…

He appears suddenly in front, facing you from offside left, eyes fixed downward.  You hold your gaze on the mirror with tremendous effort, and watch his hand reach towards your waist.  His fingers make contact, hovering between the cups of your bra, then tracing slowly down the center line of your stomach with his nail—lightly at first, but with mounting pressure as he traveled downwards...as if it were a blade.  You don't make a sound. You don't even breathe. All that talk of pyschopaths and sadism...you thought it was just theatrics, but you realize with a queasy lurch: he never actually promised not to hurt you.  He spoke of doing whatever he wanted, he spoke of 'understanding' the unspeakable things done to him. And you gave no conditions, offered no limits.  He was warning you the whole time, and you were too busy trying to score points in a battle of wits.  Why hadn’t you listened?!

He’s stopped at the hem of your panties, and you have a flash of real  actual terror.  For a split second you think:  he wants to do whatever they did to him...to me.

He won’t, he wouldn’t...would he? No.  No! You’re not certain.  Oh God.  You’re trembling, dizzy from all the quick shallow breathing, trying desperately to remain still, but he’s just standing there, staring.  You’re trying not to move, honestly you are, but your head is swimming and you start to sway.

And then his hand snaps back, his eyelids flutter and with one sharp intake of breath he's back to his professorial pose.

“Apologies, I went somewhere else for a moment.  Where was I?”

An off note still lingers in his voice.

Your fear dissipates almost immeidately (almost as if it were looking for an excuse), revealing quite a bit more arousal than you would have expected (in the circumstances). You are learning all sorts of new things about yourself today.

Your patient Doctor looks down at your confused and humbled state and chuckles quaintly...as if nothing strange had happened:

“This is such an entertaining scene I am almost sorry to disrupt it, but I do have a lesson and I must endeavor to complete it.”

He disappears behind you, and warm fingertips glide down the backs of your shoulders to the taut band of your bra. You hold your breath, and in a moment the band goes slack, and the cups go loose against your breasts.  His hands appear at your neck, and you brace yourself as they smooth their way down.   He moves slowly—at least it feels that way—but soon the straps are off your shoulders, and the bra falls.  Chill air prickles across your nipples, and as they harden under Dr Chilton's gaze it takes every ounce of strength not to move your hands to cover them.

You like to think of yourself as sexually confident, bold--certainly not prudish. But, standing here exposed while he stands fully dressed and scans you over like some kind of a livestock appraiser...you may as well be a nun.  His eyes settle once again on the hem of your panties.

A wave of dread washes over you as your realize there's only one thing left to “go”.  You bite your lip again.  A brief grunt brings your attention back, and you see that Chilton has that same hungry look as  before...but now it's more wolfish.  He leans in closer, practically pressed against your back, and places his hands on your hips.  You whimper under their heat, panting with excited fear as he pushes down the band of your underwear.  A soft tuft of hair peeks out, and now you’re dizzy again, only this time it’s with the sort of anticipation one feels on a rollercoaster nearing its peak.   His voice is soft, but so close it still rings in your ears:

“I apologize for using such a lazy metaphor, but what the sexual sadist desires--more than anything-- is to strip away the trappings of humanity, piece by piece, until their victim is completely and utterly exposed.”

He’s moving so awfully slow, drawing out this humiliating moment.  If Frederick Chilton was ever going to see you naked, you never dreamed it would be like this.  Your face is burning so hot your ears are starting to ring, and your stomach begins to turn...but you don’t move.  You don’t even protest.  All you do is watch as your whole body is revealed to a strange (*strange*) man, to do whatever he wants with it.  Your underwear joins the rest of your clothes, in a puddle at your feet.  

“Though I would just say—it normally doesn't tend to be this...easy”

He chuckles through a lazy grin.

You watch the reflection as  'your captor' steps back and quietly admires his work, but when you see the disdain in his smile your heart sinks like a stone...he's laughing at you?!  There is no warmth in that smile, no passion or even bare lust—just mocking.  He has put your in your place, and is infinitely pleased with himself.  There’s one nauseating lurch in your stomach as you become certain:  There were never any plans to indulge your childish fantasies, no romantic or even sexual interest.  He is a thousand miles from your small world and its simple needs.  You are a silly little creature to him, easily frightened, and even more easily fooled.  Perhaps that's all you ever were.  Perhaps that’s all he really wanted to 'show' you.  You can’t look yourself in the face, you can’t stand this, and you’re fighting back tears.  You don’t want to cry, you can’t cry. Not in front of him.  You close your eyes and pretend this is a dream...just some awful ridiculous dream brought on by stress, or bad seafood or--

“YAH!”

A sharp hard smack stings across your ass. Your eyes snap open to see Dr Chilton close behind you.  He is looking rather displeased.

“I did warn you, young lady. Now keep your eyes open...or next time I'm going to leave a mark.”

He. fucking. spanked. you.   Like a naughty child!  Is...is that what he thinks of you?  The room blurs and distorts as your eyes well with tears.

No no no no please, don’t, not in front of him!

You bite down on the inside of your cheek and plead quietly, but it’s no use.  One tear breaks free, then another and now you’re struggling not to sob.  In all your life you’ve never felt so small.  It’s unbearable and yet you’re still standing there quietly, obediently following ‘the rules’ and prepared to take whatever is dealt.  All you can think about is how desperately you want to run, but you don't.  Why would he do this?  What does he have to gain from it? It’s absurd--the whole thing!   You should leave, you can leave any time!  He said so!  So why aren’t you?!

He raises another hand, and you brace for whatever punishment you’ve got coming…but he just rests it lightly on your shoulder.

“You understand a little better, now, I think.” His voice is calm, gentle, reassuring.  You blink away your remaining tears, and look up at his reflection.  His face has softened; all the . Your own face is tentative, uncertain.  As if in response he raises the other hand and gently wipes a tear from your cheek.  But what does this mean?

“What is important to your mental survival is to remember that, no matter how personal the attack may seem—or how intimate it may be—it is never really about you.  If they bother with gathering details of your life, with profiling your psyche…those are just tools to them.  You are simply the vessel for whatever opaque metrics of success your aggressor has assigned to their “goal”, and they will exploit anything and everything they can to reach it. “

So it was a lesson.  Relief washes over you, but it's tentative; uncertain. You couldn't handle being tricked again. He strokes your hair gently.

“But if you are *clever*, well...silence can be as powerful a weapon as any knife, whip or chain.  You simply paint them a few key shapes, step back and watch as they fill every empty space on the canvas with the worst possibilities    will People like that aren't capable of any personal investment in others...not even love, or hate.  In some sense you aren't really even a person.  Just an object of usefulness or...convenience.”

You nod slowly, still dazed.  You really should be paying more attention, but his voice becomes gentler; almost tender, and you concentrate more on its hypnotic rhythm and timbre than its message.  That warm feeling returns to the pit of your stomach.

“It doesn’t have to be all bad.  It doesn’t have to be about pain, or fear.  In the wrong hands, control is a weapon, but in the right ones?  It can be a relief.  Think of all of the stress in your life; all of the responsibility, the obligation, the worries…imagine you could be free of all of that, just for a little while.  The planning, thinking, decisions, all handled by someone else.  All you have to do is show up, and take instruction”

He runs his hands down the backs of your arms, and as the chills dance through your body and suddenly your loins are aching.  He traces the outside lines of your figure on either side, with each index finger, up and down from the curve of your waist to your hips, never straying inwards, just watching the mirror for your reaction.  Your eyes are fixed on his hands.  You don’t trust him…not quite…but after all you’ve been through today, your body is begging for some kind of release.

“I hope you will come to think that way about these little visits.”

His fingers glide lightly up the sides of your ribcage, into the pits of your arms.  You squirm and stifle a giggle, blushing as you do.   He smiles warmly.   

“Oh dear, look at that…” he says, glancing down the mirror.  You follow his eyes downward to your thighs, which to your horror are visibly wet.

He teases your legs further apart with his cane, then watches the blood rush back into your face.  His voice is chiding, but his face is unmistakably pleased.  All you want is a little relief from this exhausting day.

“Young lady, you are going to make a mess on my floor…and that’s a three-hundred-year-old Persian rug, I will have you know.”

He sighs.

“A shame.  You were doing such a good job I was going to let you touch yourself, but I can’t do that now.”

You look at his reflection, eyes pleading.  oh God, please just don’t let him leave you standing here like this, or make you leave without…something.

“Still, you’ve performed adequately enough for you first time.  I think that should not go unrewarded...because unlike a violent psychopath, causing harm is not my motive.  I simply want you to learn, and in my personal experience I have often found the carrot more effective than the stick...do you disagree?”

Your head shakes, eyes wide.

Please please please fuck me, you want to yell.

He sidles up behind you, reaches around and adjusts your face back to center.  

“Remember, the rules haven’t changed.  Face forward, no movement I do not expressly permit.”

You give a tiny nod.  

Yes yes please please just throw me on the floor bend me over the couch do whatever you want just pleeeeease fuck me.

He sweeps the hair from your left shoulder, and leans in close to your ear.

“I'm going to be generous. Just this once.”

One hand runs down the small of your back to the soft flesh of your ass, and squeezes firmly.  You exhale sharply and watch the other hand travel up to your breast, cupping it gently. He teases around the nipple, then pinches one—only lightly, but it sends a jolt of straight through your chest, crackling down between your legs.  You gasp loudly.

“Shh, careful, doctor…these walls aren’t as thick as they look.”

His hand slides down to the front of your leg, teasing lightly towards your now-throbbing cunt, stopping just as it's greeted by the warm slickness of your inner thigh.  You squirm impatiently.  Haven't you been teased enough?

“Tsk.  How is it such a respectable young woman has gotten so worked up from something so...basic?  I've barely touched you this whole time, yet you're positively dripping onto the floor of my office—which I will remind you is where I conduct most of my professional business.   I find it terribly interesting that you—doctor, scholar, respected professional—have not one whole hour into our re-acquaintance so willingly submitted to such perverse and debasing requests.   Look at yourself, Miss Price...aren’t you the least bit ashamed?”

You nod meekly.

“What's wrong then...do you not care anymore?”

Your head shakes slowly.

“Good girl,” he coos.

Lips graze against your ear as he whispers:

“You’re learning.”

He smiles, then you watch his hand slide down to the soft sensitive flesh of your mound.  His fingers glide over the outer folds, working you up even more, before snaking their way over your clit. The sensation is so sudden you nearly cry out.  He’s pressed up against your back, other hand holding you steady at the waist.  The feel of his clothing against your bare skin is nearly as potent as the sensation between your legs.  There’s a small pressure at the base of your spine, growing firmer as your breath becomes heavier.  His face is only lightly flushed, but the evidence is poking you right in the back:  he’s as turned on as you are.

This makes you deliriously happy, and then his hand moves to tease gently around your slit.  You whimper desperately desperate for something inside of you, and this time he kindly obliges.  A thick, warm finger fills you slowly, then another, thrusting in and out while you try not to cry out in relief.  His other hand coaxes one of yours down to press against your clit, then returns to your stomach.

“Lean back.” he whispers firmly. “But keep watching”

You throw your head back against his shoulder, rubbing yourself, moaning through closed lips,.  Watching yourself in the mirror.  You no longer care what you look like, or how you should feel.  His hand is inside you; you are watching it move and the only things that still exist are all inside of that wonderful mirror. Everything has been building for so long that all you can think about is that fast approaching peak.

“P-please” you say, forgetting yourself, “Please can I come?”

He smiles devilishly, his breath hot in your ear.

“When did I say you couldn’t?”

He thrusts faster, in time with your hand.  Your breath quickens, becomes desperate as the sensation wells up within you.  His free hand moves towards your breast and kneads it firmly.

He finds the sensitive tip of the nipple, and pinches gently.

“Go on...”

Stars explode in front of your eyes as you come, you back arching violently forward from as the waves pour over you.  A hand claps over your mouth--you barely realize you’re crying out, but the skin pressed against your mouth and nose is as thrilling as the rest of it.  One last spasm and you flop limply back against him, dizzy, knees shaking, eyes closed.  He doesn’t correct you, just holds you steady.

He’s stronger than he looks.

You heart slows, your breathing evens, your head drops gently against his shoulder.  You can smell the dark, woody aroma of cologne, mixed with fresh sweat (though you’re not certain whose).   When your eyes blink open once again, you see elaborate crown molding and crisp white ceiling.  You follow a path down the wall to the mirror, until you can see him: Dr Chilton.  

His eyes are closed, his cheeks lightly flushed.  You steal a direct glance at his face; see the tiny beads of sweat lining his cheek, the light stubble creeping back after the morning’s shave; the line of his jaw and bobbing of his throat as he swallows.

When you look back to the mirror, his eyes are open.  He doesn’t say or do anything, and you get the sense that “the rules” of today’s game have expired.  You exhale in relief.

It’s fleeting, however, because now you remember that you’re standing naked and sweaty in the office of Dr Frederick Chilton, who has just seen you have a screaming orgasm with his hand inside of you.  While fully clothed.  You try and make a move for you clothes, but your knees almost give out.  He catches you gently, and almost falls over himself...all of this being visible in the mirror, of course.  Your face is turning pink again...but so is his now, at least.

“You uh…don’t have to look at—here…”

He turns you away from the glass and towards a leather armchair, then scoops your clothes and hands them to you.  You stare awkwardly at one another for a moment.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry!”

Chilton turns away politely, but as you move to sit down he interrupts:

“Wait! Don't...I mean, one moment…”

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, and places it gingerly on the leather seat, holding his gaze pointedly away from your naked form.

“Uh…here.  There you go.  You can…ehm.”

He gestures awkwardly at the seat and then walks back to his window.

“Take whatever...time you...need” says Dr Chilton, uncomfortably.

You clean yourself up as best you can with his offering, and then gratefully flop into the chair.  At one point he reappears with a glass of water, which he awkwardly hands to you while continuing to avert his eyes. It's strangely charming.

Once you've put yourself together to a passable degree, you float through the doors in a dreamy post-orgasmic haze, and spend the rest of the afternoon on a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: dominance, humiliation, and...uh...vague menacing?
> 
> Well, I *did* say slow burn. :)
> 
> This is the first smut I've ever actually posted somewhere, so (constructive) feedback is appreciated (especially on pacing, which is pretty hard to gauge when you've been staring at it for hours).
> 
> Also I need to learn more synonyms for 'smug sassy trash baby'. Also it is *really difficult* to figure out how to punctuate Chilton's dialogue for his speaking style and apparently I use semicolons now. Look what this meandering lyrical trash prince has done to me.
> 
> Next Chapter: "Safeword"; in which our heroine gets some advice, and realizes it would be wise to make the arrangement a little more formalized.


	6. Safeword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude involving a prudent call to a wise friend, followed by a spirited discussion of "best practices" with Dr Chilton.
> 
> In a very public place.

 

“Well no, it wasn’t the best idea,” says the voice on the phone.  “But I’ve certainly had worse."

There’s a sardonic tilt to the second part, and you wince at its rueful tone.  You feel guilty pestering her with this when she’s had so many terrible things on her plate lately, but she assured you it was fine.  In fact--she said--the reason she’d returned to her practice so quickly was because she found a strange kind of comfort in hearing about other people’s problems.  She used the phrase “therapeutically mundane”, which (rather concerningly) seemed to include your own situation.   

Still it was a sign that, however much recent tragedies have changed her, she is still the good-hearted person she always was.  What you needed right now was someone you trusted, with a good moral compass.  She had always been a reliable one.

Your meeting with Dr Chilton had certainly been exhilarating, but your first thought on waking up was “what the fuck have I gotten myself into?”.  

There was no doubt you’d enjoyed yourself...but you also enjoyed getting stone drunk and singing “Africa” in front of your colleagues that one time, and you didn’t decide to make that a habit. You feel embarrassed whenever you think of the details, but not nearly as much as you *think* you should be (and not without a little thrill that curls your toes just a tiny bit).  That bothers you, but you’re not sure why. You’re not sure what anything you’re feeling means, and the inquest panel people have been calling and the deadline is looming and you do want the job, but then do you want it a little too much, maybe, or is it about the ‘fringe benefits’ because that was actually quite exciting but Jesus this is not remotely professional and...and…

It was clear you needed advice, and she was really person you could feel comfortable enough telling.  You haven’t said exactly what it involves, of course.  She heard about your old mentor years ago, but knowing full well how she regarded Dr Chilton you were too embarrassed to name names.  She didn’t pry then, and she isn’t now.  Still, the conversation is not going quite how you expected:

“Actually, this sort of relationship is a lot more common than most people realize; I’ve had patients who tell me it’s a very positive addition to their lives.  Some even say it helps them ‘find themselves’.

“Even so, you need to assert some boundaries.  He doesn't sound dangerous, from what you've told me, but...you can’t always tell. Believe me.  Trust is a two-way street, if nothing else.  Until you know enough about him to tell that his intentions are truly benign, you need an offering of good faith.”

She mentions something about ‘standard best practices’ and gives you the name of a website.

You are up most of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a cute little coffee shop not your favorite, but certainly suitable for your purposes.  The coffee and music are both inoffensive enough not to distract you from your work, but what’s more important right now is how reliably you can expect it to get busy at exactly this time of day.  Normally you'd avoid the peak times, but today that noise is going to come in handy.

The brass bell above the door announces his entrance, and Dr Chilton grimaces at its cheerful broadcast.  His eyes dart suspiciously around the room, his mouth twitching in disdain.  This did seem like the kind of setting he would find twee and cloying.

In other words: It’s perfect.

The inquest has been drumming along for a about week, with no further ‘invitations’ to his office.  In fact you’d barely spoken to one another.  There wasn’t much reason to at the moment, and a seemingly mutual aversion to contrive one.  There are more important things to focus on, Everything has been moving as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had ever happened between you, and frankly that was starting to bother you.  Perhaps you really had called his bluff, and after some reflection of his own he’d decided to forget the whole thing had ever happened.

But that morning, the note appeared. Just an unassuming post-it stuck to the lamp on your desk, informing you that someone had the patient file you had requested from "the archive".  You hadn't requested any file, which was puzzling...until you saw the rest:  

_Call office x68_

_-Dr C_

At that point you realized it was time to stop putting off the...conversation.  A neutral location was best: Somewhere that wasn’t private, but still had some degree of anonymity. Somewhere, you decided, that he wouldn’t be too comfortable.  You were after that show of good faith, and this seemed like the best venue for it.  It was going well so far.  After all:  He’d bothered showing up.

 

“...this is your ‘charming cafe’?” he says dubiously.

“I don’t really know the area,” you say apologetically.  “This was more convenience, really”

He sniffs.

“Hm.  I expected you to request some kind of conversation, but I did not anticipate it would take somewhere so... _folksy_.”

“Well, thank you for indulging me.”

There's a small grunt of acknowledgement, and then he seats himself.

“Do they have bourbon?” 

“Um...it’s a coffee shop.”

“Mm.” he grunts. “Oh well.”

 Dr Chilton orders a salad and an americano, and then gets right down to business:

 “So, what is it specifically you feel needs discussing? I thought it was clear that anything related to the arrangement was to take place at my office.”

 “Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about that, and I’ve decided: I’m not going to be comfortable with this being a ‘thing’ unless we set some ground rules.”

“That," he huffs, "is exactly the opposite of how this ‘thing’ works.  I told you: I am the one who makes the rules.”

“You said you make the rules when we are in your office.”

You gesture towards a particularly cutesy cupcake display.

“I didn't see one of these in your office.  Unless I missed it.”

Chilton responds with a deeply satisfying pout.

“There's no need to _sass_ me, Dr Price," he sulks.  "It seems you have me--though only on a technicality.  Still, I suppose that is my fault for not being more cautious with phrasing...it did not appear you were actually paying attention.”

He takes a sip from his coffee, grimaces at it.

“...I don’t know what else I was expecting,” he sighs at the mugs; pushing it slowly away before looking back at you.

“Very well, Dr Price:  Tell me about these ‘terms’ of yours--but please be discreet.”

You learn forward, smiling pleasantly.

“Alright, here’s how this is going to go down:  It works like you say it does.  I do whatever you tell me to in that office, but:  you have to agree to some limits.”

Your voice is comfortably above a whisper, which is clearly too loud for Chilton’s comfort. He huffs:

 

“The entire point of...the exercise," he huffs, "is that there are no limits.”

“Yeah, if you’re a psychopath!”  
  
“Well I’m not!” he snaps defensively.   

He shifts in his seat and glances nervously around the room.  

“How am I supposed to know?” you ask innocently.  “It’s like you said:  I don’t know you,”

He rolls his eyes with a insolent huff. 

“Fine,” he sighs.  “What limits do you propose?” 

You smile graciously.

“Thank you!  Okay, here’s the deal:  No broken bones.”

Frederick’s mouth falls open.

“No burning, no cutting--in fact, no blood.  Let’s just take blood off the table entirely.”

He gawks at you for a moment, while his eyelids flutter in dismay. His voice drops even lower.

“Dr Price, you have drastically over-estimated my dedication to--”   

He swallows.

“--realism.”

“Well, again: how can I possibly know that?  All that talk about the imagination being unbound, and filling in blank spaces with gruesome torture...” you say blithely.

His mouth is twitching again.

“Your point is taken, Dr Price.  Just...please keep your voice down!”

It's extremely enjoyable seeing him squirm.  You continue:

“I hope it's safe to assume that things revolving around certain... _physiological byproducts..._ are already off the table. Specifically, ones we generally describe as being 'voided'.  You know, urophi--”

He interjects urgently:

“YES! It is very safe to assume that!”

“And copro--”

“Jesus Christ, woman!” he hisses.

You cock your head to one side, wholly unperturbed.

“Well, some people like it!” you shrug. “Remember: no limits to the imagination.”

His stares at you in disbelief through a face that’s going a rather undignified shade of pink.  A nearby patron looks up from her paper with a raised eyebrow.

“I can assure you,” he whispers, eyes darting around the room, “none of that had even entered my mind.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to judge anybody,” you reply innocently. “Not my thing personally, but...different strokes, and all that.”

You pause, and take a long noisy drag on the straw of your near-empty glass; watching him the whole time.

He is absolutely _livid_.  How delightful. 

“Are you finished?” he asks through clenched teeth. 

“Nn, those were just the big ones.  There’s a few more.”

You pause again, and click your tongue. His scowl deepens.

“No marks--well, nowhere visible.  I don’t want to have to explain myself to people.  Hmmm and then there’s weapons:  no knives, no guns, no whips, no chains, no belts--in fact, let’s just say no weapons.  For completeness.”

“Well, now you’re taking all the fun out of it,” pouts Frederick.

“Not if you have an imagination,” you retort.

He raises an eyebrow.

“For now.  If I think of anything else I’ll just email you.”

“Please _do not._ ”

“I’m kidding,” you giggle, resting a hand lightly in on his forearm.

He twitches in disapproval, draws away rather obviously and grabs a teaspoon.

“And what’s to stop me from just ignoring all this and doing what I want?” he ask, petulantly stirring at his untouched coffee.

You shrug.

“Well, nothing. I wouldn’t be in a position to stop you, probably...”

You lean in dramatically and furrow your brow .

“Except,” you say softly, “now that I’ve told you what I **don’t** want, doing it would pretty much make you a _rapist_.”

The teaspoon falls with a loud ‘clank’.  His eyes are wide as saucers.

“I...that…” he stammers, frozen helplessly in his seat.

Frederick was just being petulant, naturally.  He’s clearly disturbed by your pronouncement, but this was one of those moments where you don’t want to fuck around with vagueries. He tries again:

“That...obviously is a fair point.  I was not actually...intending…*ehem*…”  
  
He clears his throat loudly, and takes a moment to collect himself.     
  
“I was being facetious, of course,” he mutters sheepishly.

“Of course!  I believe you--but once again: It’s best to make sure.”

You lean back with a light and friendly smile.   That you’ve thrown him so badly is deeply reassuring.  

Dr Chilton regains his composure and reverts once again to his usual haughty patter.

“Well, Dr Price, it will please you to know I find your demands perfectly acceptable; they will in no way hinder my...lesson plan.  Now, if there are no further concerns--”

"Actually...there is one more."  

"This is becoming extremely tedious.  What is it?"

"I want a safeword."

"A what?"

"A safeword! It's like a...kill switch," you explain.  "You pick a word, and then if something goes too far then you can say it and...they stop."

He's looking pensively at you, which is quite a surprising turn.  

"One word, and it all...stops." he says quietly; wistfully.  

"That way, if you don't say it the other person knows you're okay even if you're crying or, or hurt or...whatever." 

He's silent.  You roll your eyes, anticipating more sarcasm.

"I know it's not 'the point of the exercise', but...Dr Chilton?"

He's staring right past you, not registering anything you're saying. His brow is furrowed, his jaw is slack, his eyes are troubled.  It's almost looks like he's going to...cry?

"Dr Chilton, are you okay?  Dr Chilton?"

This is becoming concerning, but you don't want to make a scene.

"Dr Chilton!" you try again, but he doesn't move.  

You hesitate for a moment, then you reach out and gingerly touch his hand.

"F-Frederick?" you whisper.

His eyes snap back into focus and you jump back.  He blinks at you with a bewildered look, and for a moment you're worried he's had some kind of episode.

"Are you...all right?"

"Ah...yes.  Fine," he coughs.  "Er, that just made me think of something.  I was distracted, sorry."

He shakes his head, and straightens in his chair. He won't quite look you in the eyes anymore.

"Anyway, you were saying about a...'safeword'."

"Yes, I was saying--"

"I heard what you said, Dr Price.  Not a terrible idea--seems prudent, actually. I will allow it."

He's still a little thrown, but clearly trying to hide it.  You don't push.

"So, what is your word, then?"

 You grin.

" _Transference._ "

He raises an eyebrow.

"...clever girl.  Satisfied now?"

“Of course.”

"Well, I am relieved to hear it.  Now if you will excuse me, I need to get back to my hospital."

He stands and collects his jacket, trying to remain inconspicuous.  Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says:

“Oh by the way…”

“Hm?”

He looks down at you with biding eyes and that sinister half-smile.

“I do hope you are still able to make our _appointment_  ,” he says darkly.

You return his gaze with an unassuming nod.  There’s a cold tingle down your spine, but you've gotten the ‘good faith’ you need now, and there’s no reason to be afraid.  It’s obvious:  This ‘new’ Dr Chilton is an egotistical and slippery character, but he’s no *monster*.

  
Of course, there’s more than one kind of monster...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief descriptions of violence.
> 
> In which the reader briefly turns the tables, and discovers that negotiation and consent doesn't have to be boring.
> 
> Given the extremes that are common in the canon course, I wanted to find a fun way to say 'so nobody is getting any organs stolen, or ending up in any dead horses' (well, nobody we care about, anyway :P)
> 
> Next chapter: I'm sure there won't be unforeseen consequences to your cheekiness :P


	7. A Bit of Honest Work (Pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You arrive in Chilton's office after dark, and are greeted with something you didn't expect: a costume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's overlook the fact that it's been over a year since I updated this for a moment, heh heh...heh. The "second lesson" ended up being much longer than I'd planned, because I really got into the 'predicament' and the build up to the explicit smut. So, I've divided this into two chapters. Pt 1 is the scenario and the build up of tension, with head games and a battle of wills. Pt 2 is The Dirty Part. This chapter has some swearing and a confused protagonist wandering around in her underwear, but nothing more graphic. Pt 2 is entirely porn, with bonus porn at the end. Choose one or both at your leisure :)
> 
> I've been really touched by the feedback. I had no idea this was going to be something that people really got into, and while I really enjoy writing it I kind of regret the first person POV choice because I get hung up on how to work with that for more than a chapter for various reasons. I think it also would have been better to make the first "lesson" a single contained fic, and then do this as a series. I don't know what practical difference that makes, but for some reason it feels less like I'm leaving people hanging? I need to stop getting hung up on stuff like this, because it's genuinely half the reason I don't post more, and that feels really silly.

Most of the hospital isn’t that much different after hours. Most of the lights stay on (to your relief), and there are nearly as many staff on duty.  Possibly even more security.

 

The Administrative Floor is an entirely different story; a ghost town lit by waning daylight. It spills cloud-muted through the grand windows of the foyer and settles in dull milky puddles on the floor.  The only sounds are the echos of your own steps.  A little eerie, but hardly as spooky as any of the patient wards.

 

It’s only the second time you’ve been to Dr Chilton’s office, but it’s hardly difficult to find.  The secretary’s desk is empty, and you find one of the stark black doors is ajar.  You stop for a moment as a little wave of giddiness overtakes you.  It seems so seedy, sneaking around such a venerable (well, more like ‘infamous’) institution of medicine to hook up with a colleague who is sort of very nearly your boss.

 

_ What’s it going to be today? _ you wonder.   _ Another ‘lecture’?   _

 

That would be just fine.  Him talking down to you like a first-year student, making you perform new kinds of ‘scholarly exercises’.  Now that you’d cleared the air and asserted yourself you are free from doubt and twitching with curiosity (among other things).

 

You knock on the open door.

 

“Ah, Dr Price, yes. Come in,” he calls amiably.

 

The man rises from his desk with an untelling expression.

 

“Close the door, please.” 

 

You do so, and turn to face him, smiling expectantly.  He eyes you up and down a moment, then smiles back.

 

...well, its more of a  _ leer _ , really.  

 

“I must say, Doctor...you are an uncommon talent.  Twice now you have succeeded in embarrassing a man who, it must be said, is normally quite difficult to rile.”

 

You suspect he’s overstating the ‘difficulty’,  but accept his words as a compliment.

 

“ _ Really _ , though,” he says with an actorly sway.  “I am  _ offended _ that you thought it was necessary to lure me out into public just to have a perfectly reasonable conversation about boundaries.  What must you think of me?”

 

You cock a ‘what’s-your-angle’ eyebrow; playful but suspicious.

 

“Slightly more than I used to.” 

 

That afternoon was  _ nothing _ like the gala, and both of you know it.  It’s all a game now, and you played your hand like a pro. If he underestimated you that’s his own fault.

 

The doctor raises one eyebrow, but says nothing.  This is taking entirely too long, you reason.  Time to move things along:

 

“So...today’s lesson?”

 

Chilton scoffs.

 

“Today’s  _ lesson _ ,” he chides, “is that you should have paid more attention to the  _ first one _ . The entire reason we are here is because of your shocking misconduct, and then within a week of our acquaintance you go and do exactly the thing that landed us here in the first place.”

 

You try and restrain a smile, but you end up biting your lip a little more playfully than you’d intended.  The sight stops him mid-thought, and if the twitching

 

“Maybe I just need it... _ explained _ again?”    
  


“Oooh, no,” he says with a wag of his finger. “I am  _ on _ to you, young lady.  I know what you are after; I remember  _ last time _ . And while it is certainly ingratiating--my voice is a quality often overlooked--”

 

The doctor pauses conspicuously.

 

“But still, you have gotten some  _ ideas _ in your head that I am afraid I must now  _ discourage _ .”

 

He turns on one heel and glides toward an old wooden cabinet against the rear wall.

 

“Having said that, do not worry yourself too much about this latest transgression, because I have already forgiven you--gracious as I am. 

 

“In fact?  I have a present for you.”

 

He produces a black and white gift box, and bids you toward him.

 

Well, this is unexpected. Your mind calculates the possibilities as you move towards him.  The smug grin tells you to expect something unpleasant, but you can’t help being excited.

 

As you take hold of the package, your hand brushes lightly over his. You shiver.

 

“Go on...open it,” he says patiently.  x

 

You set it down on the cabinet and carefully open the lid. There’s a crisp rustling of tissue paper and a flash of white fabric.  For a moment you think it might be lingerie, and you pull at what could be a thong, only wait, no, it’s...some kind of hat, maybe?  No, there’s far too much material, and...

 

Oh no. He didn’t.  You grasp and pull, and out pours a cascade of white cotton ruffles.

 

_ Oh my God. Is this--OH MY GOD IT IS. _

 

Dr Chilton chuckles as you gawk.  No. No way. You cannot believe he’d be so tacky...and yet here it is.

 

“... _ French maid _ ? Really?!”

 

His nose crinkles in distaste.

 

“Ugh,  _ vulgar. _ Please, Doctor, that is genuine  _ Victorian _ housekeeping attire.”  

 

He stifles a giggle.  

 

“...and only the apron.” 

 

You’re speechless.  Frederick, meanwhile, can barely contain himself.

 

“I ordered you a little hat, but sadly it has not arrived.”

He circles the desk, snickering to himself while your face turns hot.  This is  _ not _ what you had in mind.

 

“I had hoped that positive reinforcement would encourage proper behavior, but offering you the carrot seems to have put the idea into your head that you and I are equals--that does not work for me.  I may be laughing now, but make no mistake:  I remain dismayed by your persistent lack of respect.”

 

You cock your head to one side, bemused.  His eyes narrow.

 

“Do not play coy with me, missy--showing up here all smiles and rosy cheeks, tittering like a schoolgirl as she sneaks behind the bleachers to French the Lacrosse team captain,” he sneers.

 

That was an oddly specific analogy, but you can ponder neither its meaning nor the suspicious tinge of bitterness in its delivery before he charges on:

 

“So! Today’s lesson is: Your rightful place.  Your one hint: it is somewhere in this room. I will give you some time to ponder that, while you put yourself to use. If you can complete this work in a reasonable period of time-- _and_ control that mouth of yours--you will avoid anything too unpleasant.  Otherwise?  You will be _dealt with_ , Miss Price, until I am satisfied you have accepted your status relative to _mine_.”

 

Your mind struggles to take it all in, still caught up trying to process the fluffy monstrosity in your hands. All you can do blink.

 

“Here are your instructions:  You will strip down to your underwear, and put on the apron.  I gave the cleaners the day off, so...you will be taking on their duties.  The rugs need to be vacuumed, the floors swept, the furniture dusted and polished, and the windows wiped down.  Trash collected by the door, and so no.  All very straightforward--simple enough that even  _ you  _ should be able to manage.” 

 

Confusion shifts to disbelief. You didn’t stay two hours late to play housekeeper!

 

“Try not to look so disgusted...a little honest work might do you good.  Besides, frowning does not flatter your jawline.”

 

_ Oh, the Hell he just... _

 

“Am I allowed to talk?” you ask with considerable restraint.

 

“That depends entirely on what you  _ say.  _ There is an old adage I am certain you are familiar with--‘something nice’?  I would keep it in mind, if I were you.”

 

Your mouth twitches, but you hold back.  He clearly wants a rise out of you, and you are determined not to give it to him.

 

He returns to his desk and laptop, and appears to begin working again. You stare at him, confused, and noticeably irritated.

 

“...while we are young, Miss Price.” he says absently.

 

_ “Some of us more than others…”  _ you mutter to yourself.

 

You undress down to your bra and panties, but the scowl stays on your face.  You fumble with the apron until you’ve figured out which way is up, and slip the straps over your shoulders. It’s not *that* bad, really. The chest panel is a slim inverted triangle of cotton that covers most of your breasts, edged in lace.The skirt is a cloud of ruffles, designed to sit neatly over over broad Victorian skirts and petticoats. Having neither beneath it it droops off of your hips and hangs just centimeters from the floor.  You catch your reflection in the window, and it’s...not exactly sexy.  Well, unless you’re into frumpy period dress, and you have just now discovered that you are not.  You sigh quietly to yourself, then turn to face your tormentor.

 

“Is this acceptable?” 

 

Chilton clears his throat pointedly, and says nothing. Your jaw clenches.

 

“Is this acceptable,  _ sir? _ ”

 

He looks up from the screen, scans you up and down.

 

“Shoes.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Your shoes--I said everything except your underwear. These floors are real Brazilian teak, I will not have you scratching them.”

 

You step out of your heels and onto the carpet. The apron’s hem slumps around your feet, which amplifies the “toddler playing dress-up” aesthetic of the ensemble. You note that he didn’t seem concerned for the flooring before.

 

“Is this better, sir?”

 

“Hmm. You seemed taller last time.”

 

How has it taken you so long to notice what a punchable face he has?

 

You refuse him the satisfaction of a response, and resolve to maintain your pride. If you have to play his ridiculous game, then you’re going to own your role.  Head tall, you meet his eye with quiet determination, then spin on your heel with balletic grace. 

 

Well...it  _ would _ have been grace if you hadn’t been standing on the hem. The apron twists around your legs as you turn, and you tumble forward onto the floor with an undignified grunt.

 

You’re trying to squirm yourself free, but you’re only twisting yourself tighter. There’s a burst of fleering laughter from behind you. Face burning hot, you give your legs one last weak thrash and drop them to floor in defeat.

 

“--like some kind of textile chrysalis...” snickers the Doctor.  “The  _ symbolism _ .  Ugh, how perfect.”

 

You can  _ hear _ him sneering, and you are  _ not _ going to look at him. Moving with more patience, you unroll yourself until your foot finds an opening in the fabric.  With one small kick you’re free, and come flopping face down on the floor, legs splayed.  You stare downwards and refuse to think about anything but the carpet fibers in front of your face.

 

He’s laughing again; it’s an unrestrained throaty laugh that slowly wanes into chuckle, and then to a snide breathy giggle that rakes across your ears until you are fantasizing about throttling him with the apron strings.

 

_ And what jury would convict?  _

 

As you inhale, the smell of old musty carpet hits your throat. Your calm cleansing breath becomes a girlish little sneeze and then a dusty cough.

 

Another round of snickering from the desk and then (finally) nothing except the dull scratching of pen on paper. 

 

_ What is he even writing?  _ Everything in the hospital was digitized, especially anything he was involved with--to a degree that you’d never seen before. He never even took handwritten notes in meetings (which is odd, now that you think of it).

 

This momentary distraction calms you, and you now you can focus on finding a way out of this.  Maybe, if you just lie here pathetically with your ass hanging out, Dr Chilton will accept it as a gesture of contrition and take pity on you.  That, or...you know....you could always cry.

 

_ No.  _ Says the voice in your head.

 

_ Out of the question.  _

 

The writing stops, and the pen is replaced gently on the desk.  You hear the soft creaking of a chair, then silence.  

 

Thank God.  Now you can put on your best apology-face and just go home.  

 

“You know…” he begins thoughtfully. 

 

Good, he’s realized this is a wash.  If you act sorry enough maybe you can make it home in time for Scandal.

 

“If you had asked me this morning to choose between the two,” he continues, “I am certain I would have picked this sheer little black thing--but seeing it here “in the flesh”, wouldn’t you know it?”

 

He pauses meaningfully.

 

“I think I prefer your  _ owls _ .”

 

Goddamn him.  

 

“Anyway, if you are finished with your little pantomime routine I trust you will get moving on your chores, hmm?

 

“--Or do you intend to lie there all night like some kind of sad voyeurist frog?”

 

Your anger returns in a fearsome wave, and you’re on your feet before you realize you’re moving. You step toward the vacuum, this time carefully gathering the apron from around your feet.  He is *not* going to win, and you are not going to surrender.  You’ve had Halloween costumes more embarrassing than this. Why should you be ashamed of anything that happens in front of some trifling little man who gets off on making women play humiliation dress-up from behind a desk?  He should be so lucky to catch one glimpse of an ass like yours!  Why are you the one who’s bowing and scraping? He should be begging you to get into your “owls”.  

 

Surrender is no longer an option. You are going to clean the  _ fuck _ out of this office, and you are going to be cute as _ fuck _ while you do it and you are going to be  _ so fucking  _ cheerful it makes him  _ gag _ .

 

Soon you’re on a roll.  Most of the room doesn’t need more than a little dusting, and there’s a certain tactile pleasure in whipping around with the quaint old feather duster he’s provided--same goes for the tickling sensation of the apron wafting around your bare legs as you sweep the exposed floorboard ( _ Real teak! _ ).

 

_ I am Rosie the Robot,  _ says the defiant voice in your head.   _ I am Mary-Fucking-Poppins, and I will dance across his goddamn desk with a spoonful of sugar up my ass if it wipes that smug fucking grin off his face. _

 

Dr Chilton will occasionally look up from whatever task he’s pretending to be absorbed in, and when he catches your eye you shoot him a guileless smile, and enjoy the indignant little huff that comes in response.

 

So, as silly as you may look you still have the power to provoke him. How incredible! You can’t help but smile as you wipe down the east window.  When you turn for the other one he’s slumped sideways over his desk with his head propped up on one arm, his face falling into the pouty scowl of a sullen teenager. The look in his eyes would be disquieting if the rest of him wasn’t so... _ petulant. _

 

You nod modestly, and give a small curtsy before making your way to the other window (a brilliant coup-de-gras, you feel).  He can’t punish you if you’re doing what he’s asked! He rises to inspect your work on the other side of the room and pauses in front of the pristine east window while you set to work on its neighbor.

 

When you’re satisfied you step back to admire your work--but when you turn to the other window...

 

_ Oh, he *didn’t*. _

 

Your lovely clean window has two giant hand prints  _ right in the center _ . 

 

_ Deep breaths. Deeeeeep breaths. _

 

“Oh, dear,” you say mildly.  “I must have missed those…”

 

_ Asshole!  _ You start buffing them out without a trace of chagrin (even though the bastard has clearly used  _ hand creme _ ).  Something moves in the corner of your eye, and you look in time to catch him reaching for the glass.  He freezes like a cat. You stare for a moment, then he purses his lips and turns back toward the desk with a guilty cough.

 

You return to your work feeling even more satisfied, but just as you’re finishing you hear a bump and a dull metallic clang from behind you.

 

“Ugh, look at that...how terribly clumsy of me.” he says, with no sincerity whatsoever.

 

The small metal wastebin by his desk is on its side, its contents spilled across the floor. You feel your eye twitch.

 

“Not to worry!” you chirp through a tight smile. “These things...happen.” 

 

You set to work gathering the trash, crawling around his desk on your hands and knees after napkins, tissues (ugh), crumpled post-its.  He pretends to ignore you, but when you try and reach past his legs for a pen cartridge his legs shift to block your way.  You hold your tongue, crawl to the other side and...he shifts them back again.

 

_ Christ, what an asshole.  _

 

You breathe slowly and deeply.

 

“Pardon me, sir, I need to get something under your feet.”

 

He looks down.

 

“Oh!” He exclaims in mock-innocence. “Of course. My apologies.”

 

“ _ Thank you _ ” you mutter, jaw clenched.

 

You retrieve the cartridge and return to the bin.  You’re startled by a sudden loud noise--he’s blowing his nose.  Now he’s...dropping...the tissue...on the floor.  You watch it land in utter disbelief.  Flames are rising on the side of your face as you retrieve it.  You grab the bin from the floor--this seems like a good time to empty it.  Your already limited patience is stretched dangerously thin, but if you can just get a few minutes of  _ peace _ you can calm yourself before you boil over.

 

“Pardon me sir…”

 

Your voice is quivering now.  He can tell that he’s getting to you. You need to get away  _ now _ , before you snap. Too urgently, you blurt out:

 

“Pardonmesir butwhereshouldI disposeofthis?” 

 

He looks up, again, the picture of innocence.

 

“Hm?  Oh, that.  The trash can is in  _ that _ corner.” He says, sweeping his arm low across the desk, knocking over a large (and suspiciously  _ pristine  _ looking) container of paper clips. The lid bursts off, scattering dozens of glittering clips across the floor in all directions. You gawp in disbelief.

 

Chilton, meanwhile, is just sitting there pointing towards the corner with as if nothing in the world had happened.

 

That. is.  _ It.   _ You are DONE.  This is all a pointless waste of your time, and if he’s trying to provoke you then  _ fine _ .  You toss the bin down, it hits the wood with a satisfying  _ clang  _ as its contents spew across the floorboards.

 

“What the HELL is wrong with you?!”  you shout.  

 

Blood is pounding in your ears, your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

 

“Exactly how screwed up does someone have to be to think…I mean...just who the  _ fuck _ do you think you are?”

 

Chilton’s manner changes abruptly. He closes the lid of his laptop, and turns his eyes toward you: His face is hard, his jaw is taut and he is staring you right in the face. To the uninitiated his eyes might have appeared blank and expressionless, but you recognize it:  the carefully restrained rage of a man convinced he has been wronged by the world, and he is owed a debt that can never be repaid.  You’ve seen this anger in patients and inmates--particularly men.  Hell, you’ve seen it in *dates*. It startles you out of your own anger.

 

A moment later he’s standing, walking straight toward you.  You’re frozen under his glare, heart racing; a rabbit in the headlights.  In the very next second he’s grasped you firmly around your chin. Half of your face fits into just one of his hands.

 

“Who am I?” he repeats.

 

His voice is low and dangerous.  He pulls you closer and leans in until your forehead is just touching his, his eyes never breaking their hold.  He whispers:

 

“I am the man who  _ owns you. _ ”

 

Your anger is gone, and now you are quaking in his grasp.  Still, you stare back defiantly. You’re determined not to let this get the better of you. 

 

Then you notice the eye.  

 

The left one--you couldn’t pin down what was seemed off about it before, but up close the contact lens is plainly visible. Everything around (and visible through) it is a milky grey-white, and you know immediately what this means. You remember what he said about the injury, and your head fills with images of blood splattering, bone shattering.  Your vision tunnels until all you can see is that fierce unseeing eye--dead, yet still somehow  _ boring straight into you.  _ The fear is inchoate...it’s formless and unnamable and the only coherent thought you can string together is “someone save me”.

 

Then as quickly as he advanced he breaks away, and steps back.  You are frozen in place.  

 

The tidal fury retreats from those eyes as suddenly as it appeared, and his features relax to their prior haughty detachment. He leans lightly on his cane.  He breathes in and out slowly, still staring at you, but his eyes are calmer now. Contemplating.  The corner of his mouth draws into a the tiniest of smiles. A shudder runs down your spine.

 

It’s an expression he  _ wants  _ you to see, his way of calming you just enough to remember that the “stick” will always come with a “carrot”, as he had put it. A familiar warmth begins to gather in the pit of your belly. You were moments from yelling the safe word and running for home, but things have suddenly become  _ interesting _ .

 

“You were so  _ very close _ , Miss Price” he sighs. “I am deeply disappointed.

 

“It did not have to come to this, my dear, but you have left me no other option.  You need to be punished.  _ Properly.” _

 

He strides over to one of the antique leather couches.

 

“ _ Come here _ .”


End file.
